


Constable in the Alley

by ALittleBitTooExcited



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly!Lestrade, First Meeting, M/M, TW: drug use, Teenlock, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALittleBitTooExcited/pseuds/ALittleBitTooExcited
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Constable Lestrade finds a young addict in an alleyway during his beat. The boy seems rather down on his luck, and so, Lestrade offers to take him in for a few days. What he didn't sign up to deal with, however, was the boy's personality, and most notably, his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> [[ Hello, everyone! I've decided to import some of my stories over from FF, so here it is. This one in particular is my favorite, so I really hope you enjoy it! ]]

When Constable Lestrade saw a figure in an alley, he almost kept going on his route. At this time of hour, it was most likely a drunk, a man down on his luck, or worse yet, a body. The first two weren't something he could do anything about, and he wished with all his heart that it wasn't the latter. He knew the procedure when he found a corpse and could recite it off by heart. However, it was just twenty minutes until his shift ended and Greg Lestrade wanted nothing more than to go home and get pissed drunk.

That wasn't his usual routine, mind. He wasn't an alcoholic, not like the bums he passed by on the street. However, his relationship, the thing he had valued above all else in the world, the thing that had started way back when he was in secondary school, the thing that Greg was sure would lead to marriage and family and everything he had ever pathetically dreamed about. Her reasoning for leaving him was simple, and frankly, Greg couldn't blame her.

What woman could possibly put up with a bumbling constable who was out all hours of the night, and who had a very real possibility of not coming home in the morning?

So Greg had let her go, with a minimal amount of pleading and begging involved.

That'd been three days ago.

So, with a hangover ever-present in his mind, with the worst self-esteem he had had in ages, and with very little hope for the future, Greg nearly passed by the figure in the alleyway. He ran a hand through his hair (greying, and not a tick above twenty-five) and stared down it for a few seconds. His following resolution could be summed up in three words.

_What the hell?_

He ducked his way down into the alleyway, keeping one hand on his gun. Part of Gregory Lestrade was still good, still moral, and he knew he'd probably be worrying about this poor figure in the alley if he didn't at least go check. "Hey! Everything okay over there?" The alley was grungy and dirty, and for a second, something that sounded frighteningly like a human hand cracked underneath his feet.

After his mile had been jumped, Greg took out his torch and shined it down. A needle. Typical, he supposed. Drug use had only been up in London lately. He'd have to scrub the damn boot when he got home. Lord only knew what sort of diseases were clinging to the tainted glass. As his light illuminated the back alley more, he saw many more needles and used bandages lying around.

_Wonderful, Greg, you got yourself into a drug den. Not too late to turn your drinking problem into a drug addiction, is it?_

The figure wasn't moving, and for a good second, Greg pulled himself out of his pity and looked at him. "Hey! Hey, you, kid, you okay?"

No response. Not even a groan.

He got on his knees beside him. The man (boy? God, he looked so small, so thin) was trembling, all over, and when Greg reached to take his pulse, it was through the roof. "You okay? Mate, what are you-"

He began to seize.

Greg hadn't gotten much medical training. Hell, his training more or less stopped at being able to tackle a bloke down and try not to give him a concussion. He tried to dredge up what he had learned about seizures ( _panicking suspects, pre-existing conditions, drug overdose, keep them still, keep them calm, make sure they don't hurt themselves)_ , and finally, in a fit of panic, he just rolled the man over on his side and put a hand on his upper arm. His other hand fiddled with his mobile and he called it in, first to Emergency, then his own supervisor. By the time he had finished with that, the man had vomited onto the disgusting alley floor, and his seizure was starting to stop.

As soon as his muscles stopped seizing, the man went limp, and soon, he became very, very cold. For a second, Greg thought that he had just seen someone die for the first time, but the boy's heart was there, beating very, very fast. His actions after that were quick.

He scooped the man up into his arms and held him close. As they came into the light, Greg saw that he couldn't have been more than…shit, seventeen. A tourniquet was still tied tightly around his arm, a bit of blood leaking out through the wound still. Greg put the man down on the pavement in front of him, laying him flat and keeping his hand on the boy for his pulse.

The boy stirred only once before the ambulance arrived. When he spoke, he did so in a voice several tones lower than Greg thought he'd be speaking. He raised one hand and made the universal 'stop' motion to Greg, placing his palm towards him.

" _N-no…hosss…hosspih…tahl…"_

Then the boy was out, and, immediately, Greg thought of several things.

For one, the boy had been using something illegal. Of course he had been. He wanted Greg to leave him alone, to die in the alley, because he didn't want to get arrested. For the other, it gave Greg a bit of hope that someone was out there looking out for this boy. Probably didn't want to go to the hospital and have his parents find out, and have his parents get mad at him. Yes, that must have been it, he must have been just a one-time user, experimenting on his own, and he had taken just a bit too-

Oh. Track marks lined his arm. Twenty, thirty, forty. Addict, then.

His heart broke. Seventeen years old. An addict, a straight-up addict.

The ambulance pulled up and Greg helped them load the boy onto the stretcher. The movement made the boy stir a bit again, and for a second, his hand tightened around Greg's wrist. His eyes flicked open and their gaze met. Shockingly blue eyes met with his warm brown ones, and then the boy passed out once more.

They let him ride along, but they didn't let him go any farther than the front doors of the hospital. At that point, it was nearing eleven at night, and Greg was tired, and wanted to go home, and wanted to deal with all the shite paperwork associated with someone like this. He didn't, however, and for that, he only contributed one reason.

At the tender young age of twenty-five, Greg was still young enough to feel sympathy and heartbreak and pity for the cases he saw, and this boy's case struck him directly in the heart. So he drove back to his flat to pack his things for the night, and returned and waited until a nurse came in with pitying eyes and said that he could come see 'the boy', but he would have to wait until his other visitor left.

Other visitor. His parents had arrived. Greg breathed out a sigh of relief. His parents were here, it would be a wake-up call, and they could all go home and chastise him and he'd turn out alright. He ran his hand through his hair and tugged his jacket a bit tighter around him. Right, then, maybe he didn't even need to go in. Maybe he could just go home and get some meager hours of sleep before he had to return to work. Maybe-

"Oh, watch where you're going."

Someone dressed in an elegant suit bumped by him, followed quickly by a lady who wore an elaborate string of pearls around her neck. They were both middle-aged, they both had their lips shaped in a rather severe frown, and, as Greg looked at them, he felt the need to spit out a hasty apology. Maybe bow at their feet a bit for good measure. Then the woman's eyes flicked up to meet his and for a second, Greg stood back as if stunned.

Now, Greg wasn't a romantic. He had given up on true love approximately three days ago, and even before then, he had never been particularly weepy or fanciful. He didn't believe in fate, he didn't believe in ghosts, he didn't believe in love at first sight.

But as that woman stared at him, with shocking blue eyes, Greg felt a small shiver run across his spine. It wasn't a good feeling.

For some reason, he hoped with all his heart that it was a coincidence. The aura that those people gave off (and since when did Gregory Lestrade start believing in  _auras?)_ was chilly, cold, and Greg thought that they might not take kindly to their son who was just recovering from an overdose. Either way, his choice was decided for him, now. He moved his way into the hospital corridors and stood right outside of the boy's room.


	2. Two

_Oh, hey, I'm the Constable who toted your arse off to the hospital. I hope you're alright, and by the way, I should probably arrest you. Don't worry, you're underage, I'm sure you'll get off easy, just a little bit of jail time. I hope those weren't your parents out there, they look like real prats. Oh, and don't get into an addiction, turn your life around, you're much too young to ruin your life forever, etc., etc._

The little speech brewing in his head was immediately cut off when he entered the room. He turned the handle, stepped inside, and then flinched as something hit the wall very near his head. It sounded like a gunshot, and for a few seconds, Greg could do nothing but feel a hellish amount of pain in his forehead.  _God, no alcohol, ever again._ Immediately Greg put his hand on his gun, still securely fastened to his waist.

Remains of what used to be an intact water pitcher littered the floor. His heart was thumping, now, and any symptoms of his hangover immediately disappeared as adrenaline flooded his system. "What the  _hell_ was that, ki-"

"If your last word in that sentence is 'kid' or any variation thereof, I need to reminder you that currently I have the mindset of someone who has very little to lose in attacking a constable."

The kid was looking at him from the bed, and for a second, Greg wondered how the hell he had summoned up the strength to toss that water pitcher. Dark bags lined the boy's eyes, his hands still shook, he was horribly thin, but those bright blue eyes looked back at him with a frightening intensity. It made Greg want to squirm.

"Er, hi? My name's Constable Lestrade. I was the officer who called the ambulance for you, when you were in that alley. Just wanted to stick my head in and make sure you were alright."

"It's a bit hard to arrest someone whose hands won't stop shaking, Constable."

"I'm not here to arrest you."

Greg's words surprised himself, though, in retrospect, they were probably a good choice. Taking the boy away from the hospital before he recovered wouldn't do anything for him, and Greg wasn't sure how long a recovery from an overdose took. In front of him, he could see the boy wriggle a bit, trying to gauge his sincerity. Then he asked, in a tone significantly softer than his first, "I was under the influence of cocaine. You do know that, don't you?"

"Not the cocaine bit, specifically, but yeah, I know. No sense in kicking a bloke while he's down, I figure. You've had a pretty shite day, haven't you?" As he asked the question, Greg's lips pulled into one of his smiles. His ex always comment _ed_  that Greg had brilliant smiles – warm, doggy, and encouraging. Right now, though, he was scowling at Greg, and that just made Greg shift uncomfortably, desperate to make conversation with him.

The boy's eyes narrowed at him, as if trying to judge his sincerity. Then, in a flat voice, he said, "You may as well arrest me, Constable. I have come into a recent… _change_ in living situations, and I do not know where I am going after I recover. A jail is as good of a place to sleep as any."

Greg blinked several times in mild confusion. It wasn't as if he didn't understand what the boy was saying, but the voice seemed a bit older than the boy it lived in. Then it hit him. His parents had just kicked him out. According to his chart, he was seventeen years old, and his parents had just kicked him out over this. He sat next to the boy, pulling his chart out and looking over it.

_Sherlock Holmes. Aged Seventeen. Formerly admitted for cocaine use, morphine use, and various accidental poisonings. Emergency Contact: older brother Mycroft Holmes aged 24._

The rest of the paper was uneventful, except in the 'other comments' section. There, in flowing red capital letters, read one phrase.

_Do not converse with patient._

At that, Greg had to crack a smile.

"What are you reading?" Sherlock's voice was sharp and insistent from the bed, and for a second, he sounded like a child who was too short to see what his parents had put on the table.

"Just your files. You're a busy man, do you know that? And what's this  _here_ about nobody being allowed to speak to you?"

Suddenly, the boy sat up, and Greg saw the boy's face flush green. He steepled his shaking fingers together, placed them on the bottom of his chin, and stared at Greg. For a few seconds, they didn't move from their positions, and Greg opened his mouth to speak.

"You had a serious long-term relationship that ended three days ago. To fill the void left by her, you've been working far longer than your body can physically allow and you've been drinking as much as any decent alcoholic. You're desperately trying to save what little colour is left in your hair, you've tried and failed to date the interns at the Yard, your alarm clock is broken but you enjoy your job."

Oh,  _that_  was why.

"How'd you know that?" Greg kept his face neutral, although inwardly, he was just a touch impressed. Well, no, impressed perhaps wasn't the best word. If the situation hadn't been surreal enough, Greg felt like he was dreaming a bit, now. Was there a touch of annoyance at being deduced by a  _kid?_ Of course, but, hell, he'd been undermined before and he had very little pride with which to argue.

Sherlock stared back at him, as if he were expecting something else. Upon receiving nothing, he gave a small roll of his eyes.

"Your shirt is untucked and you're wearing two different-coloured socks. That means you care very little for your personal appearance. However, your shoes are still quite shiny and your trousers have been dry-cleaned before, which signifies that this new apathy is quite new." A small smirk. "Love is so destructive, isn't it?

"As you came in, I noticed the soles of your shoes were nearly worn through. Even now, your shoulders are slumped. It isn't such a leap to say that you've been working long hours, then? Long hours, walking, walking,  _walking_ along the roads of London? Not to mention that you winced slightly as you came into my  _brightly lit_ room. When I threw my water pitcher at you, you remained still for a few seconds longer than normal, as if still stunned by the noise. Drinking last night, then. But a  _Constable_ , drinking before a  _long shift,_ one who lives  _alone,_ one who  _cares_  about his job? Certainly the drinking has become more than just a once a week ordeal.

"As for your hair, you've played and ran your hand through it three times since you started talking to me. Clearly you're trying to ruffle it and display the little bit of brown you have left among the grey. You've got traces of pen on your cuff, what used to be a woman's name, ' _Sally',_ I believe but, as I've said, you're clearly living alone. She's an intern because the ink is purple, and the Yard only accepts black or blue on paperwork, which means that she's not been around long enough or she doesn't care enough to abide by their rules. Your alarm clock is broken because of the bags under your eyes, signifying that you've had to get up and be out the door within a very short period of time, but you still care enough to fight your way through a hangover, so you do honestly like your job. Heaven knows why."

Looking at the boy, Greg would never expected to hear him talk that much. Yet he was, counting off each deduction on his fingers. Upon finishing with that short sentence, he sat back, reaching for the pitcher of water and then cursing when he remembered. Greg, himself, sat back for a second, before he chuckled softly under his breath.

"So that's why they don't talk to you, then."

At first, Sherlock's face turned into one of fury, ready to offer a rebuttal, but then…he softened. Perhaps he realized that Greg's voice wasn't malicious, or condescending, but conciliatory. He cleared his throat.

"Yes. Well. They can't bring themselves to punch someone who is, technically, a child, but they do have to fight that urge."

"So you don't have anywhere to go?" Greg asked, and that was about when an idea bloomed in his mind. The thought of this little bloke in jail was awful. Not to mention that he thought of putting the bloke in a rehabilitation program, with how he treated people, and he internally shuddered. One of his little sisters had dealt with a drug problem, herself, and although she had died about half a decade ago, he didn't want Sherlock ended up the same way.

Sherlock's answer was quick and terse. "Jail."

"Right. Have you been in rehabilitation before?"

"I'm not going to rehab, Constable, not even if I am forced."

"Rather keen on going to jail, then." Greg replied with a small grin. He cracked his fingers and Sherlock grimaced. At that moment, however, the boy looked so young and so innocent and even…frightened. He was being confronted with the choice of rehabilitation and jail and, if only for a second, he just looked  _too young_ to be given that decision.

Besides, Greg felt guilt. Yes, he'd been doing his job and without it, Sherlock would have died. But it had been Greg who had gotten his parents called. Not to mention that he really was just a kid, even if he was a bit of an ornery one. In rehab, he'd get brutalized. In jail, he'd get killed. Mixing that all with the fact that his ex often noted that Greg had a heart of gold at the end of the day, Greg felt like he had made his decision.

"Hey, Sherlock. I don't know how you'll get on in a prison or a rehab, but my gut's telling me that you're not going to much like either. I've got a flat a few blocks away from the Yard. I'm sure I could get someone to take care of you for a few months, or whenever you turn eighteen, or whenever you save up enough to get a flat of your own."

"I met you twenty minutes ago and now you're asking for me to move in with you."

Greg winced. "No, of course not. I'm not saying permanently, mate, I'm saying until you get through the worst of your withdrawals and you can function like a normal human being. Preferably when you can get a job and have a flat of your own. So."

Mycroft Holmes sat in a rather spacious office, unaware that just a few months prior a bumbling Constable had just found his overdosing brother in an alley. When he had left home seven or so years ago, he had remained reasonably confident that Sherlock would behave. His Father and Mother usually made sure he didn't get into too much trouble, anyway.

Regardless, Mycroft had made it a point to call once every two weeks. The past few months there had been no calls, because Mycroft was busy. He had finally been elected to a  _very_ minor government post (frankly, he was nothing more than a glorified secretary, now), but it was a start. He had traveled many places in the world the past couple months, he had learned how the government worked. Granted, no friends, but Mycroft wasn't there to make any.

However, right now, Mycroft wasn't sitting in his office to file reports, or to talk to stuffy officials. He was in a panic. One call to his parents, whom had congratulated him on his new job, had told him that Sherlock was no longer their child. They didn't even know if he was alive, yet, considering the last time they had seen him he had been recovering from an overdose.

An  _overdose._ Oh, God. And where, Mycroft asked warily, was he now?

They didn't know.

It took approximately two hours for Mycroft to find out, and when he received the name, he sat back in confusion.

Who the  _dickens_ was Gregory Lestrade?


	3. Three

During the first few weeks, Greg had woken up to absolute silence. He'd make his way out to the kitchen and Sherlock would already be there, sulking in his chair or mindlessly chewing cereal. After the first solid month had passed, Greg woke up to the sound of light violin music. That would overall be the best time in Greg's mind – waking up to the soothing sounds of Berlinsky or Bach put Greg in a good mood.

Now, he woke up to the sound of various bangs and crashes. His landlord had already complained to him, and Greg had managed to get Sherlock to stop for a grand total of two days. That particular morning, he just pressed the pillow to the top of his face and  _groaned._ He had a day off. Sherlock, if he had done nothing else, had convinced Greg that working himself to death wasn't the answer. Regardless, sleeping in wasn't an option. Not with Sherlock doing whatever the hell he was doing.

"How many times have I told you that is your bloody  _bedroom,_ not a  _laboratory?"_ Greg yelled at him as he shuffled his way into the hallway. The bangs ceased for a second.

"Erm, I have a girl over! Don't come in!"

Well, at least nobody could say that Sherlock didn't have a damn sense of humour.

Soon the smell of eggs and bacon filled the small flat. Greg had been reminded just how small it was when he moved in Sherlock – what used to be a makeshift office turned into a makeshift bedroom. Sherlock had a bed, a closet, and a desk. The latter two had been built by Greg during one frustrating afternoon, and the bed had been borrowed from an old neighbor.

He had been hesitant, at first, when he started building them. Giving Sherlock a room and actual possessions implied a certain amount of permanence that Greg wasn't sure if he was comfortable with. The past few months hadn't been  _awful:_ Sherlock, in all, was a very quiet individual. He went to school, he came home, he vanished to his room. Occasionally, on the weekends, they would watch the telly together. Sherlock would complain and point out inaccuracies. Greg would make randy jokes. It was nice.

The withdrawals had become less severe and less frequent, which probably staved off Greg's inevitable heart attack or stroke by another decade. Initially, they were so bad that Greg had to cradle the lanky boy on the couch to keep him from twitching off of it. Occasionally Greg would flip on the telly, to give some sense of normalcy. Other times, Greg would just talk to him. Once, very memorably, he had sang to him. Greg would help him, hold him, and reassure him until Sherlock stopped sweating, stopped shaking, or stopped crying. Then he would silently put Sherlock to bed, and they would never speak of it again.

The cases had certainly helped. Just because he had a sudden new (pleaseoh _God_ lethimbetemporary) flatmate didn't mean he had to stop working. Hell, he had even had to cut back on a few things to pay for another mouth and whatever other things a seventeen-year-old kid needed. It just meant that he had to work from home more, and he often carried his paperwork home with him. One fateful night, Sherlock had been in one of his moods (it signified that a withdrawal was just about to come, really) and stalked around the small flat. He had caught sight of one of Greg's cases. When Greg had left to get a bit of tea, Sherlock had been in his chair, pouring over it.

When he had left to get some sleep, Sherlock had solved three by the morning. And he demanded more.

He always liked cases, Sherlock claimed, but he'd never been able to get his hands on an actual case. More worryingly, though, Sherlock was asking if he could come along at _crime scenes._ See  _criminals._ Solve cases on his  _own._ Of course Greg had no doubts that he could do it (and probably better than Greg himself could), but he'd already found Sherlock in one alley, and he wasn't keen on finding him in another.

Greg had always wanted to be a parent. Growing up with three younger sisters had sort of solidified that. Granted, he hadn't been keen on being one like this, but it was nice enough. He made sure Sherlock was fed and got to sleep on time. Sometimes he helped him with his homework (not that Sherlock really needed help with it, but it made Greg feel better). All in all, Gregory Lestrade cared for Sherlock the way a parent would, and he loved him the way a parent would.

"Hey there, sunshine. The vampire's finally left his crypt, has he?" Greg teased him as he spotted the pale, gangly teenager shuffle into the kitchen. The boy had taken to wearing a long sleeping gown over his grey pajamas. It dragged on the floor and just exaggerated how tall the bloke was. "Here. Eggs and bacon. Eat. I saw you shaking in the wind the other day." A small smile cracked his face. "And tell that girl you were shagging in your room that she can come out and eat, too."

Sherlock did that peculiar thing of his where he looked over his shoulder so that Greg couldn't see him smile. He was particularly easy to deal with, today. Looking over Greg, Sherlock nodded once and then turned back to his plate full of food. "Your day off is today. I presume you shall spend it like all the others. Perhaps replacing your shampoo, or gathering more nicotine patches?" He smirked to himself as he picked at his food.

The damn nicotine patches. To set a good example for Sherlock, and because he had to cut back on a few luxuries, Greg had given up the cancer sticks. Now he survived wholly on the patch. In those past few months, all of the brown in Greg's hair had vanished entirely. Completely grey, then. Initially, Greg had been rather self-conscious of it, but Sherlock had made comment after comment, insult after insult, that Greg was practically immune.

Sherlock had been horribly kind to him the first few weeks. Hell, Greg barely saw him, but he picked up after himself. Now he was what Greg preferred to call 'essentially Sherlock' – often biting, often insulting, with a few small breaks that showed Sherlock to be as human as anyone else. The withdrawals were the prime example.

"Yeah, I'll be heading off to the Tesco. You need anything, Sherls?"

A grimace. Greg knew that Sherlock detested nicknames. ". . . Not anything of absolute importance, no. I am going to be out later today. Will make curfew."

"Damn right you will. If I hear anything about you making your way around the crime scenes, I'm not going to be happy, Sherlock."

"Heaven knows what a shame that would be."

It was comfortable, normal little banter between them. Greg didn't have any little ways of disciplining Sherlock for a multitude of reasons. The first two being that Sherlock was too clever to willingly accept punishments and the second being that Sherlock didn't have many possessions to take away. He had one big thing, though – threatening to send Sherlock away. Sherlock knew that when Greg said  _those_ fateful words, he was mad.

That was a two-way street, though. Greg did tease Sherlock. For the most part, Sherlock accepted it with grace. However, Greg could immediately tell when he had gone just a little too far. Sherlock wouldn't fight back, wouldn't grimace, wouldn't frown. Instead, the boy would just look blankly at his own shoes, as if trying to remember something. It broke Greg's heart.

"Yeah, yeah, you skinny little bastard. Just don't cause havoc in London, eh? I won't have anyone saying that I had one of the most prominent criminals in London under my roof."

Sherlock did snort at that, spraying a bit of his food all over his own plate. Greg felt relief. The boy was  _eating._ The boy could be brilliant, amazing, fantastic, and clever, but Greg didn't know how he managed that while only eating once every few days. He was a growing teenage boy, damn it all.

The bell.

Sherlock's head shot towards it, and Greg saw the boy's deducing face. Damn it, he had even taken to deducing who was at his bloody  _door._ "Don't pop a blood vessel, Sherlock, I'll just go and see who it-"

As soon as Greg had turned his back, he heard a chair topple over. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, although Greg heard vague footsteps back towards Sherlock's room.

_What the hell…?_

He pushed his plate of food to the side and went to answer the door. Standing on his threshold was a man who seemed nearing the age of forty.

No, his face seemed too young for forty, but his grim frown, his suit, and the regal way in which he held himself screamed age. To Greg's own knowledge, he'd never seen the depressing man before. As such, he was entirely confused as to why the man was glaring at him so severely. They remained silent for a few seconds before Greg opened his mouth. "Erm, sorry, can I help you?"

The man's eyes narrowed as he spoke. While he was eloquent enough, he also exuded an air of prattery that Greg didn't appreciate. Whatever this man would bring up, Greg promised himself that he'd send him on his way – after all, one ponce was enough, especially this early in the morning.

"During the course of the past three months, a seventeen-year-old teenager has come to live with you. You are not his legal guardian, and in all senses, this young individual should be arrested. Likely, you should be, too, for not alerting any sort of authority about him. I am his older brother, Mycroft Holmes."

"I think you better come in."


	4. Four

Without a doubt, Mycroft Holmes was the fanciest person to ever sit on his couch. His poor, old couch that was stained in several places and dipped slightly in the middle. Greg thought it best not to mention that that had initially been where Mycroft's little brother had slept. When Mycroft had agreed to come in, Greg had made his way back to the kitchen and had swiftly cleaned up breakfast. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Not even the slightly reassuring thump from his rooms. Wanting to make a good impression (and perhaps entice Mycroft  _not_ to call the police on him), Greg made tea.

So that was how Gregory Lestrade, in his grey pajamas, came to be sitting next to Mycroft Holmes, in a three-piece suit.

"I'm a Constable. I have to walk around London, you know, and make sure everyone's alright. I found your brother in an alley, coked out of his bloody  _mind,_ and I took him to the hospital. You've met him. He wouldn't do well in jail. And he nearly punched me when I tried to comb his hair, how well do you think he'd get on with the nurses in rehab?"

Well, that could have gone better. Perhaps not as casual. Greg hadn't learned the fine art of kissing ass. It would help if this bloke was readable, at all. He might as well have been talking to a bloody  _mask._ To hide his growing discomfort, Greg sipped at his tea and winced. Bitter.

At least he was making an effort to  _drink_ the tea. Mycroft had stared at the mug in his hands, gave a distasteful look at it, and then set it back on the table. He looked uncomfortable on the sofa, but when he spoke, he was dainty and articulate.

"Yes, Inspector, I have researched what happened. Do not labour yourself with expositional dialogue, as it shan't be beneficial for the either of us. Don't you think?"

Greg was never terribly good at reading people. In interrogations, there were people who were  _amazing_ at digging into the deeper psyche of people. Greg preferred swearing and spitting in their face. But, right now, Greg couldn't help but catch the feeling that Mycroft spoke so articulately in a desperate attempt to sound superior. It nearly made him smile.

"Right. Yeah. You've got a few…concerns, then?"

"Have you touched my brother?"

Oh, God. Greg snorted into his tea, an action that inspired a strange mix of disgust and fury in Mycroft's face. "No, Mr. Holmes, I've not. Sherlock's been kicked out –yeah, I know you know, stop looking like I just spit in your tea. I had younger sisters. One was even a drug addict. I know how to handle them, yeah? Sherlock just needs someone who'll make sure he turns out okay, that's all, and I figured I'd take the temp position until he moves out."

Mycroft's eyes flicked over him, and Greg suddenly had the very bad feeling of a bug under a microscope. He felt a certain sense of déjà vu, and realized that Sherlock had given him the same exact once-over during breakfast. Jesus Christ, it ran in the family.

Finally, Mycroft sat back in his seat and nodded once at Gregory. "I think you vulgar, uneducated, and easily tempted. Before you comment, I must remind you that I have full control of your current employment. I will never approve of Sherlock living with you and if I had the power to drag him away, I would. That being said." He leaned forward and ran a hand through his hair, and for one second, Mycroft looked so distressed that Greg wanted to lean forward and hug him. He had the air of a man who was rapidly freezing his insides, most notably, his heart and his brain. It was the same sadness that Greg felt for Sherlock, sometimes. "Once he turned sixteen, he never stayed in one place for more than one month without an escape attempt. Three months is a miracle. And…and, as you said, he only has a little while longer before he can leave." Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his back rapidly straightening. "I must remind you, however, that I will not take just your employment if you so much as  _bruise_ my brother."

And, sadly enough, it sounded more of a pleading statement than a proper threat. It would have sounded a bit stronger, perhaps, if Mycroft didn't slowly deflate while he said it until he was back in his previous position – leaning forward, with his hands against his face.

Before Greg knew what he was doing, he had reached over and put a large hand against the back of the man's suit. "Hey. Look, I know how it is. You've got to protect your little ones, and sometimes, they're difficult. Mr. Holmes,  _I know._ You know what I do, you know how I've been, and hell, you probably know how I'm going to be. I'm not going to hurt Sherlock." And then Greg was rubbing the man's back. Yes, Greg realized how strange the movement was, but he thought nothing of it when it was Sherlock. This man reminded him of Sherlock.

He just cared more.

"I actually like the scrawny little thing." Greg protested softly, retracting his hand to curl it through his grey hair. Mycroft stayed in his position for a few moments, and Greg realized that the man was flinching. He was  _stunned._ His eyebrows crinkled in confusion, and he crossed his arms out in front of him. "Honest, I do. Yeah, he's up all hours and he's going to be the death of me, but he doesn't mean any harm."

Mycroft swallowed and leaned back on the couch. For the first time since he'd gotten there, Mycroft seemed to relax. Well, as much as Greg suspected Mycroft was capable of relaxing. "Nobody ever honestly  _likes_ him." He spoke in a soft voice, staring at the mug of tea. Sitting down, Greg could see that he had a bit of a pudge. It made Mycroft seem a tad less frightening, and Greg found himself liking the man, despite it all.

After all, Mycroft hadn't done anything wrong. Greg was already kicking himself for not calling, for completely forgetting the emergency contact written on Sherlock's sheet. Though Greg was reasonably certain he didn't look like any sort of criminal, he was sure it must be a shock to go to a rather tiny flat and realize that your brother was staying with some stranger. He was just a concerned older brother, albeit one with an impressive superiority complex.

"It may be my fault, in the end. When he was around twelve, I set off for University. He never really forgave me for leaving him alone, I suppose, as he never really enjoyed our parents' presence. I visited as often as I was able, but…especially when I graduated, it became more and more difficult to visit him. That was about when he started acting out. And…well, the drug use, obviously."

Mycroft looked sick with himself. As miserable as Greg had ever seen. His hands were curled up in his lap, and he was still staring at the tea. It was there that Greg got an insight into what life must have been life for the older Holmes' brother : taking care of Sherlock, getting the brunt of the punishment whenever Sherlock acted out, unable to complain because Mycroft  _loved_ his little brother. It nearly made Greg tear up.

"Hey. I'm sure it's not your fault." A pause. Mycroft was looking at him disbelievingly. "Look, I mean it. You couldn't have stayed with Sherlock forever. He's your little brother, I know you love him, but you need to leave him alone once in a while. And Sherlock…or Sherlock's parents, or Sherlock's  _friends_ should have made sure that he was going to go down that road, yeah?" As Mycroft still looked at him, Greg leaned over and placed his hand over Mycroft's. "You're a good older brother. Anyone who doesn't think so is a wanker."

Mycroft looked at him and actually smiled. It wasn't an honest smile, no, it didn't entirely reach his eyes, but it made Greg feel better. "My brother has never made friends in his childhood. I'm sure you can understand why when I tell you that he has always been who he is, in essence. Just on differing levels of sobriety." A pause, and Mycroft moved one hand to his knee. Greg's hand stayed where it was. The other reached forward for the mug of tea he had abandoned on the living room table, and he sipped it with nary a wince.

It was about then when Greg felt something squeeze in his heart. He couldn't tell what sort of emotion it was, but for an instant he was so overcome by it that he could barely speak. Over the past few months, Sherlock had completely taken over his life, and it had been quite brilliant, as much a Greg complained. Now Mycroft had come in, and he had the same effect that Sherlock had, albeit in an entirely different manner. Sherlock needed to be taken care of, needed someone around who understood him, who could honestly love him. Mycroft needed to take care of people, and needed an ally.

"Regardless, Constable, I believe that you have no intentions to harm my brother. That being said, I will have to converse with you frequently to know how he is doing." Mycroft looked apologetic for a second, and he squirmed uncomfortably. Greg removed his hand from Mycroft's and leaned back on his couch, crossing his arms. "I'm afraid that the nature of my position makes it difficult to understand when I'll have a bit of free time. I will send for you, Constable."

"Sounds brilliant, that. I'll make sure you know how the little bugger's doing. We're looking at Universities, now, and I'm sure you'll want to know how that's going. Oh!" Greg paused as Mycroft took another sip of tea. "And call me Greg, would you? Nobody refers to me by my title unless they're trying to kiss ass." He barked out a loud laugh, one that made Mycroft flinch in his seat. "Though, granted, I'm not really any position for that."

Mycroft actually  _flushed_ and  _stuttered._ "Y-yes, well, indeed." He mumbled, placing his empty tea mug on the living room table and standing up. "Do you know where he is, currently? I haven't seen him."

"Heard him run back to his room. Come on, I'll show you."

They both filed back into Sherlock's room with Greg in the lead. As they rounded the corner, Greg saw Mycroft trying to nervously smooth down his waistcoat. Maybe he was self-conscious of his weight, Greg thought to himself. How odd. Mycroft was an attractive bloke, really.

"This is where he lives. A bit bare, but on a Constable's salary, best I could do."

"It's very nice. He sleeps, at any rate. But where…"

"Oh, for God's sake, I told him to stop this shit…" Greg grumbled under his breath, crossing through Sherlock's room to lean out his window. A fire escape. Yes, Greg had thought in advance how bad of an idea it was, putting Sherlock's room next to a fire escape, but he didn't have much choice. "Sorry, he…he does this, sometimes, when people come over. He'll be back soon. He usually just heads off to the library."

"Oh, do you have-" Mycroft seemed to be on the verge of another question when Greg had mentioned that people come over (that wasn't a true lie, really – it just didn't happen very often). Then he shut his mouth and shook his head, once, as if inwardly chiding himself. "Are you sure he'll be alright? I can send someone to tail him, if you'll tell me where he is."

Greg chuckled at him. "You're an odd little bloke." At that, Mycroft sniffed out a 'hardly  _little'_ , but Greg kept going on. "I'm sure he'll be okay. He always comes back home. I'll see you out, then, he's not likely to come back when you're still here." It was an unspoken hypothesis Greg had about their relationship – Sherlock didn't like Mycroft.

At their front door, Greg extended a hand towards him. Mycroft took it and shook it firmly. "Nice to meet you, Mycroft." After all, Greg had told Mycroft to use his first name, so why couldn't Greg use his? "I'll be seeing you soon, then, okay?"

Mycroft smiled at him. The smile reached his eyes and Greg felt something warm in his chest. Oh, brilliant. He'd actually gotten the distant man to  _smile_ at him. "Very nice to meet your acquaintance as well, Gregory. I will send for you soon."

" _He_ is a proper  _bastard,_ Lestrade!"

Greg ran a hand through his hair and gave a short huff. "Look, Sherlock, he's a nice enough bloke. He came over, he shared his worries, and then he left. There's nothing bad about him."

Sherlock's face didn't change from angry disapproval. "I don't want to see him. At all. I don't want to be reminded that he exists, I don't want to have to speak to him, I don't want to be in his presence again." He hissed at him, sitting on the couch. When he had finally come back, Greg had sat him down and had yet another short talk about how Sherlock couldn't sneak out like that. As usual, Sherlock disregarded him.

"And I'm not saying that you have to.  _I'm_ going to be the one to talk to him. He's a nice enough bloke, Sherlock, and he cares about you a hellish amount. I'm not saying that he's going to be over here every Sunday for a lager, but I want him to know. He should know."

Sherlock paused and looked at him for a few seconds, before stating matter-of-factly, "He  _does_ have a rather large arse, so it must not be that hard for you to kiss."

"Go to your room."

"It's four in the afternoon!"

" _Go_ to your room."


	5. Five

The past month or so had been incredibly kind to Greg Lestrade. Sherlock had settled down and had actually put forth effort in his last year of secondary school, Greg's minor bout of excessive drinking had nearly vanished, and, perhaps the most important, he had found a peculiar but reliable friend in one Mycroft Holmes. Initially their meetings had been very distant – Mycroft would send a crony out to pick him up (although it was the same one every time, a young woman, a tad older than Sherlock was), and they'd head out to some godforsaken warehouse. One where Greg would feel fortunate that he had his gun on him. They would speak and Greg would leave.

As the meetings went on, they began talking longer. Meetings that only occurred once a week and lasted twenty minutes were now happening three times a week and going on for hours. It became readily apparent that a warehouse wouldn't be comfortable or practical, so Greg had suggested going out for lunch. Now Greg usually planned his lunch hour around Mycroft's, and they often ate.

Meetings that were strictly about Sherlock turned into meetings where Mycroft told stories, Greg laughed, they shared experiences, they expressed worries, they chatted about their day. Sherlock always came up, of course, because he was such a large component of both their lives, but he quickly dimmed to a less important figure. Greg was friends with the elder Holmes, now, and to his surprise, he quite liked him.

Beneath his arrogance, Mycroft  _cared._ Cared about his brother, cared about his job, cared about everything he came in contact with. For some reason, Greg felt as if he were the only person who could break through his icy exterior. Flattering, perhaps, but also madly worrying. Sometimes he would just reach across the table and squeeze Mycroft's suited shoulder and tell him that everything would be alright. And the look Mycroft gave him, then, the one where his eyes lit up (fractionally, mind) and curled his fingers on the table told Greg that Mycroft  _believed_ him.

Mycroft had played the cello when he was very young, he had once won a chess competition, he rarely wore anything other than a suit, he despised the freckles and the redness of his hair, he had an admiration for law enforcement, he preferred cognac over beer, he smoked when he was under stress.

And, hell, Greg told him the details about his past relationship, how badly it had ended, told him about his younger siblings, told him about his reasoning for joining the Yard, and elaborated on why he had took Sherlock in.

They were close, and it had only been a month. Still, and Greg wasn't one to tempt fate, it was one of the happiest months Greg had had in a while.

"You're going to meet him again today, aren't you?"

The pale child's voice shocked Greg from his daydreaming, and Greg realised where he was. At the breakfast table with Sherlock, crunching on some cereal. He was ready to go to the Yard and Sherlock was probably going to be late to school. The boy was looking at him with one raised eyebrow.

Swallowing, Greg nodded. "Probably. He doesn't have the bloody sense to  _call_ and let me know beforehand. Still just picks me up and drives me off to some café somewhere. I'll be home late tonight. If I get a call from the Yard, saying you've tried to go and visit some crime scene again, I swear to God."

At first, Greg attributed the next slight change in Sherlock's voice to puberty. The boy's voice was just a tad higher than usual, and a bit more intense. If Greg had been a stupider man, he would have said that Sherlock was  _anxious._ "You'll be home late tonight, again? You're not shagging him, are you?"

It wasn't as if Greg didn't know about Mycroft's sexuality. But it wasn't as if he gave a damn about it.

"Oi. Watch it. Now get to school, you crazy git, you're going to be late." Greg insisted at him, and after the expression on Sherlock's face didn't change, his own expression softened. "We're friends, Sherlock, that's all. Now go. Go on."

So, Sherlock went to school, and Greg went to work.

The only thing notable about his day was the news that a serial killer had escaped from a prison and was out working around London. That news alone made the entirety of the homicide division groan, although probably not for the reason it should have. They'd all be there late tonight. In fact, the sun was just beginning to go down when Greg's superior came up and told him that he could have an hour to eat. Just an hour.

"Hey, Mycroft. It's Greg. Sorry I couldn't get kidnapped for you during lunch, but there's a madman on the loose and God knows I've been trekking all over London to find him. Bloody irritating. Anyway. I know you won't answer, but you'll check your mobile. I've an hour off for dinner, and I'm starving. Would the Queen deign to give me his presence this evening?"

God, grinning like a damn fool, and he hadn't even heard Mycroft's voice. He supposed he was just looking forward to hearing a voice that wasn't chiding him.

One car ride later, Greg was sitting across from one of his favourite men in the world. Mycroft was smiling back at him.

"Dreadful business, Gregory, but I'm confident the Yard will apprehend the man. It may take a little while, however, if the men in your division remain as incompetent as they are." A pause, and Mycroft tilted his head to the side. His freckles became readily apparent as the man blushed. "Why on Earth are you smiling at me like that? It's indecent."

"I'm just  _really, really_ bloody happy to see you." Greg told him, giving him a warm smile again and then eating at his dinner. Mycroft, as per usual, barely took a bite. A diet, he always claimed. Occasionally Greg would convince him to eat something unhealthy, and Mycroft would just smile and say something about how Greg was going to be the death of him. "Sherlock's tried to call me twice. First it was saying that he had to stay after for detention, of course, and the second was saying that he's eaten the rest of the Chinese takeout."

"He's only worried, you know."

"I've told him a dozen times I'll be home when I can, and safe. He doesn't believe me, really, and calls me an idiot."

"Don't be too harsh with him."

"How can I be? He's Sherlock Holmes."

At that, Mycroft Holmes cracked a smile, and quickly acted to disguise it by sipping his water. Greg had learned that when Mycroft was working, he tried not to smile. Not to laugh. There was a strange kind of intensity about him, and Greg realized with a shock that Mycroft had worried about him. Huh.

"He's doing well under your care. I believe he's gained a full stone, which is absolutely astonishing. His marks are satisfactory. According to you, he's actually been sleeping. I do believe, my dear Constable, that you are to be nominated for a sainthood." Mycroft's voice was light, but his next words were delivered completely honestly: "Or, at the very least, a promotion…?"

Greg shook his head. "Don't be daft. I've not gotten a handout before and I'm not getting one now. I've told you a  _thousand_ damn times, I'm fond of your brother. Though…" His mind traveled to what Sherlock had said earlier today. How frightened he had seemed when he considered the possibility of Mycroft and Greg being in a relationship. He'd never seen Sherlock frightened in his life.

Mycroft leaned forward, his long fingers folding on the table. His tone was urgent. "Is something the matter with him?"

"I don't know, mate. He just joked about us being…er, involved, and he seemed strange. He's usually so…well, you know him. Cool. Calm. Collected. But for a second, he looked like he was sincerely scared at the idea that you and I would ever shag."

As soon as Greg had said the world 'involved', a light blush spread over Mycroft's face. It was a controlled blush, subtle, but Greg couldn't help but smile. Regardless, Mycroft composed himself and spoke swiftly: "He's just a child, yet, and more to the point, a child who has been abandoned by his biological parents. You've been, probably, the best parent he's ever had. Terrified of  _me_ replacing  _him,_ you know."

A good idea, Greg supposed. Bit funny, to think of Sherlock behaving in such an irrational manner, but he had long suspected that Sherlock held a few more emotions than he really let on. Either way, he nodded, accepting Mycroft's ideas. As per the usual.

The next half hour or so was spent on stupid, mind-numbing topics that gave Greg a refreshing sense of normalcy. And if Mycroft's leg brushed his once or twice under the table, or if Greg intentionally made Mycroft blush once or twice, he didn't think too much of it. Soon it was completely dark, and Greg looked at his watch and he swore.

"They're going to kill me. Myc-" A nickname, and Mycroft blushed. Endearing. "Would you mind driving me back to the Yard? Chief of Police is going to have my head already, much less if-"

"Say no more." Mycroft pushed his half-eaten plate away from him, Greg pushed his empty plate away, Mycroft paid the bill, and then they were walking down the street. "I hope you don't mind if we walk a little while. Anthea had to park the car somewhere a tad more discreet."

Greg walked to the right of him, trying to smooth down his attire. Mycroft strode, brolly gripped tightly in his hands. For a second, it was just a completely normal moment, their steps falling at the same time. The stars shone brightly above London, and Greg just stared at them for a second. Then, wordlessly, grinning, he gripped Mycroft's shoulder and indicated upward. Mycroft stared into the sky as well. His lips stretched upwards into a smile.

Greg's hand drifted from Mycroft's shoulder to take his hand. Mycroft didn't pull away. It seemed like a strange, but romantic, endearing, sentimental moment.

Until, of course, some bastard came and ruined it all by crashing into Mycroft's side. Greg responded first.

"Oi, mate, watch where you're-"

The next movement happened far too quickly for Greg, and far too slowly for Mycroft. The man was tall, thin, sickly-looking, with dark, narrow features. Greg realised it as the man whom he'd been searching for the majority of the day. Mycroft saw a good bit more. Through the telling fighting injuries on his hands and face, he noted that the man had encountered the type of fighting law enforcements officials used recently. Through the track marks on the inside of his arm, he gauged the man to be a drug addict. From the translucent quality of his skin and the brittleness of his hair, he had had a poor diet and stayed in the dark, indicative of hiding from someone. So, in a lot more roundabout way but at the same exact moment as his companion did, Mycroft realized exactly who the man was.

The man had a knife, and had brandished it towards Mycroft. Mycroft saw the engraving on the knife and had taken one step backward, bumping into Greg.

Greg, in turn, took action immediately. One hand went to grip Mycroft's suited shoulder and he shoved Mycroft behind him, and, then, he stepped forward.

His hand went to his gun. The escaped serial killer stepped forward again. Mycroft's vision was obscured by Greg, but he could hear what was going on. Greg's finger fumbled on the trigger, and then there was a shot. Two shots. The attacker didn't fall down until the engraved knife fell into Greg's shoulder.

Greg fell down with a shout, clutching at his shoulder. The attacker didn't make a move, and he was most likely dead, given the copious amount of blood pouring from his chest.

The scene must have lasted a second for Greg, but an eternity for the man who observed and noticed everything.

"Mycroft! Mycroft, Jesus, you've-" Greg hissed up at him, his hand fumbling for the grip on the knife. He couldn't find it, instead contenting himself with writhing in pain on the pavement. If he could have properly seen anything, he would have seen Mycroft take out his mobile and call Anthea.

And, if he could have climbed inside Mycroft's mind, he would have seen Mycroft's reaction. The intense bit of fear that gripped his heart, the shock that paralysed every limb, the  _worry_ that he hadn't felt since he had lived with Sherlock. It had been so long since he had undergone such emotion that he could only mutter ' _Call Emergency'_ into the mobile before getting on his knees next to Greg's side.

Greg was gasping in pain, only dimly aware of the weight settling next to him. His hands clawed at the pavement as he felt himself going farther and farther away, and then, he felt someone press against his wound. The action caused him such an amount of pain that he cried out, but he heard no apology. In fact, he heard nothing from the man pressing against his wound.

When the paramedics would arrive later, with the most peculiar call to immediately transfer the man to a private physician in a private room, they would find Gregory Lestrade alone, unconscious, a knife stuck in his shoulder, and a brolly, laying forgotten by his side.


	6. Six

 

Greg's bed in his own flat was lumpy and generally uncomfortable. So, when he regained consciousness, it was almost as if he were at home. But as his fingers tightened on the blanket, he realised it was too scratchy and thin to be his own duvet. When he realised that he wasn't home, his eyes shot open immediately.

They met with the point of an umbrella. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recognized it as belonging to one Mycroft Holmes. That thought didn't make it to his conscious mind.

The umbrella was jabbed forward and hit him roughly in the forehead. Greg's brown eyes focused beyond the umbrella at one seventeen-year-old Sherlock Holmes, perched on the side of his bed and holding the umbrella. Repeatedly, Sherlock hit him in the forehead with the point.

"Ow! Jesus! Sherlock, could you really  _not-"_ Greg grumbled, reaching his right arm automatically to brush him away. With a shock, he realised he couldn't move it. His arm was bound tightly to his side, and even more thick bandages covered his shoulder. If Greg had been any more lucid, he would have remembered what had happened. But, currently, he had a more pressing problem to deal with.

"What is  _this?_ They found this  _on_ you at the crime scene. What were you doing with him at  _that_ hour? Where did he  _go?"_ Sherlock punctuated each question with another jab, and finally, Greg just raised his left hand and batted him away.

"I promise I was just working late,  _honey."_ Greg grumbled under his breath, collapsing back on the pillows. "Look. I was out having lunch with your brother. He worries about you. And I'm sure I'm putting some strain on his blood vessels by having you live with me. We lost track of time, and no, I don't know where he went. I was sort of unconscious during the latter bit of it all, you know."

At each word, Sherlock crept a bit closer to him, and Greg finally managed to see the worry that Sherlock had been experiencing. Dark shadows went underneath his eyes. Sherlock was swallowing a bit more rapidly than usual, too, and Greg wondered if he was holding back tears. The boy's clothes were messy and rumpled.

Well, look at him now. A regular detective.

"Get offa me, you scrawny git. If you're expecting a kiss, you won't be getting one." Greg replied gruffly, and Sherlock complied with a scoff. Their comfortable banter had returned, and Sherlock lost a little bit of the anxiety stored in his shoulders. "How long've I been out?"

"Twenty-two hours."

"You're shitting me." Greg replied with a wince, reaching for the glass of water at his side. It was like a bloody godsend as the cool liquid hit his throat. "Twenty-two hours for a  _stab wound?"_

"Yes. And while we're on the topic of things that are likely to give you a heart attack, you've also been elevated to the position of Detective Inspector. Your valor in saving London or something similar." A pause. "My brother also left you to bleed to death on the curb. Congratulations."

Greg stared at him blankly for a second, attempting to comprehend what Sherlock had just said. The promotion was brilliant. Fantastic, really, though Detective Inspector entailed a lot more paperwork and a lot more crime scenes. Mycroft leaving him? That was a bit stranger. It put a nasty taste on Greg's tongue.

What was stranger still was the smug look Sherlock was giving him. As if Sherlock was so bloody satisfied that his brother had just left. And, to the point, why  _had_ Mycroft left him? He was dimly aware of shoving Mycroft behind him, of the stab wound, of being shoved to the ground…then some pressure. That had to have been Mycroft, and then, Mycroft would have been the one to call Emergency. So Mycroft had cared. But he had also ran away.

"Sherl, mate. Give me my mobile, would you?" Greg held out his hand for his mobile, but Sherlock just scoffed softly.

"I don't understand why you're so keen on having a friendship with that abominable man." Sherlock held up Greg's mobile and then placed it far out of Greg's reach. Greg had known him long enough to understand what was unspoken in Sherlock's voice –  _I'm_ here,  _I'm_ making sure you're alright,  _I_ didn't leave you behind to bleed to death. And, to some degree, Greg knew Sherlock was right.

So Greg just put out his good hand and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder. "Hey. Sorry if I gave you a bit of a fright. I'm fine, though. Thanks for staying here, by the by. Would've been damn confused if I'd woken up in an empty room, you know? As soon as I get out, I promise, mate, no more getting stabbed. Especially not for your brother."

Sherlock looked at him, and for a second, his expression softened. Then the walls went back up and Sherlock wordlessly handed Greg his mobile. Greg gave him a large grin and dialed the number of Mycroft Holmes.

Frankly, he knew he shouldn't have been surprised (or disappointed) when he heard the voice of his assistant instead.

"Hello, this is Mycroft Holmes's secretary. What is your purpose for calling?"

_Oh, hi, I just wanted to let Myc know that I'm okay._

_Well, y'see, I woke up in the hospital and whoop, Myc had left me behind on the pavement._

_I actually held his hand for two seconds before I got stabbed, and it was nearing the continent of 'romance', so if he wouldn't mind going on a date…?_

Good Lord, the drugs  _were_ starting to kick in. "Detective Inspector Lestrade." God, he was so damn proud to give his title. "I want to request an appointment with Mr. Holmes. Tell him that…"

_Hell,_ it was tempting to give an eye for an eye. To just lie and say 'your brother's hurt' and immediately get the appointment. However, that'd also make Mycroft worry like hell. It wasn't like the elder Holmes didn't deserve it, not after leaving Greg, but…Greg didn't have it in him. He sighed.

"Tell him that I need to speak to him. Urgently."

"I'm afraid Mr. Holmes's schedule is filled as of the moment, and he has no time to speak with the New Scotland Yard." Was there a bit of a sneer in that woman's voice? Hmph.

In frustration, Greg spluttered out, "Tell him that I bloody  _know_ what he did, I'm  _not_ angry, and I just want to talk to him."

There was a pause. A flutter of paper. "In that case, Inspector, he has an appointment open in exactly two days. 3 PM. He looks forward to seeing you there."

The line went dead. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and Greg wordlessly put his mobile to the side. Then he fell backwards onto the bed and groaned, loudly.

It had taken a little bit of doing for Greg to get out of the hospital early. Sherlock had put on his best acting, and Greg had pleaded like a madman. Still, it was only a few hours before his appointment with Mycroft that he managed to get home to his flat. In those three days, Mycroft hadn't called. Sally Donovan, an intern, had left a cheerful little card.

Sherlock had barely left the hospital room. When he had, he had done so at Greg's insistence. It wasn't that Sherlock was particularly motherly. Really, it was probably only the fact that he now had a captive audience to rant and rave to. Yet there were snatches of time, however brief, where Greg saw proper worry in Sherlock's eyes.

"Honestly, Lestrade, you're in no shape to go and visit my brother. Stay here. Lay down on the couch. Drink something." Sherlock asked him, flitting about his side as Greg threw on his jacket. It was a tad more difficult to get dressed, but he wasn't degrading himself to ask the nearly-eighteen-year-old yet. Speaking of which, he thought to himself, he really would have to throw the bloke a proper get-together.

"Half-hour, Sherl. That's all. And I'll be back." Greg promised him, throwing his jacket over the sling on his arm and making his way to the front door.

_God,_ Mycroft worked in a strange place.

Once he had made his way in, there was a bustle of politicians roving about. They stared at Greg's dull shoes and raggedy jacket with a sneer, and Greg self-consciously squirmed on his feet. A young woman, no older than twenty-two, showed him to Mycroft's office. Admittedly, it was small, and the young, slightly chubby young man behind it looked odd. Then again, Greg always thought that Mycroft had the air of royalty, or at the very worst, a sort of dictator. This office/refurbished janitor's closet seemed too _low_ for him.

"Detective Inspector. Congratulations on your promotion, but condolences on your injury. A full recovery, I hope?"

Greg blinked once and took a seat across from Mycroft.

_Oh, hey, thanks. So, I was wondering why you haven't called, haven't visited, haven't said anything!? I could have died, you son of a –_

"Yeah, full recovery. It hit a bit of muscle, and they're waiting to make sure there's no complications from it. " A pause. Mycroft seemed off, somehow, and Greg realised that he was nervously playing with a pen in his long fingers. Hell. The man seemed  _nervous._  "I was wondering if you were okay. I mean, I assumed you were, but I…well, I passed out."

"Yes. Indeed. The, erm, man died as soon as you shot him, thankfully. Emergency was called and picked the two of you up, but I'm afraid it was too late for him. Not for you, however. Thank goodness." There, Mycroft sent him a pearly-toothed smile that Greg didn't trust for a second.

Greg was never one to beat around the bush. So he didn't.

"Look, Mycroft, Sherls said that your brolly was there when the ambulance picked me up and you weren't. Not to mention I haven't heard a word from you. I mean, I know you're busy, Myc, and I know I'm not the biggest thing in your life. I'm your friend, I shouldn't be. I just wanted to know why you left."

Mycroft didn't only play with the pen, now. He outwardly squirmed in the seat, he kicked his leg under the table, a bright flush moved across his face. When he spoke again, he did everything he could to avoid eye contact. For the first time since Greg had met him, the bloke seemed  _shy._ "I…er, Inspector. I haven't had an ounce of medical training in my life. What help could I have been?"

"You knew enough to apply pressure to the wound. That's something. Come on, My, what's the real reason?"

Increased agitation. "I had done all that I could do. You didn't need me, Gregory."

Of course Greg didn't believe him. But he had met the man's younger brother, and he had noticed how similar some of their quirks were. The most apparent and certainly the most worrying was how Mycroft didn't want to admit that he cared about anyone other than his brother. And, in that second, Greg had an idea of what Mycroft truly meant.

Mycroft cared about him. As strange and as surreal as that was, it was true. Mycroft cared about him, and Holmes didn't know how to deal with emotion. God, the poor man had probably panicked when he had seen Greg bleed, and after Greg had even shoved Mycroft back…it'd be a shock to any Holmes' system. With that revelation, Greg couldn't bring himself to be mad or even annoyed at Mycroft.

Hell, if Greg were a more sentimental man, it would have brought a tear to his eye.

"Still, though. The past couple of days? Not a single call?"

"I thought you would have been…irritated, at best, and wouldn't want my presence."

"I've talked to your  _brother_ for the past three days, and only your brother."

A shy smile. Mycroft finally met his eyes. "My apologies."

At that, Greg let out a mild chuckle and reached over to give Mycroft a caring shove. "Come on, Myc. I'm not mad at you, and besides, I'm going to be fine. I get to take this blasted thing off in a week or two. Let's pretend this never happened, eh?"

Mycroft coughed hollowly and looked down at his desk. The pen fell from his fingers and his hands grasped at nothing on the table. Greg's heart squeezed uncomfortably and, again, his mind fell to the last few seconds before he got stabbed. He'd held Mycroft's hand, looked at the stars, and it had been brilliant.

Greg had never really painted himself as one sexuality. He'd always appreciated both and all genders. One Uni mate of his couldn't have put him well enough when he exclaimed, after a few more beers than he should've had, "Gregory Lestrade likes  _every_ body!"

Besides, it'd been a few months, now, since his last girlfriend. And, God, what a few months it had been. A new flatmate, a new friend, a stab wound, and now, a new job. And now, maybe…?

"We should have lunch again, sometime. I've missed you." Greg cracked a smile and chuckled, an action which made Mycroft copy him. "Actually, I think I've just missed speaking to someone older than seventeen."

"Ah. Lunch. Likely your attention shall be captured by your job, but I suppose, given that you will be given some time off for your injury, you are free for the next week or so. I shall plan it, if you want. No need to stress yourself unduly."

Greg licked his lips once, and then leaned forward on Mycroft's desk. The plunge, he supposed. Greg never called himself a chicken. "And, uh, if you wanted to call this a date, I think that'd be…well, very nice. Very nice indeed."

Mycroft choked on, apparently, nothing at all. And, for a few seconds, Greg thought he'd broken him. He just stuttered for a few seconds, his fingers clawing uselessly at his desk.

Then he uttered the most beautiful words Greg had heard in the past three days.

"Er- I- I- Really, Gregory, how could- Where did this-Yes. Of course. A date, yes."


	7. Seven

Already, Greg was regretting it.

It wasn't that he didn't like Mycroft any less or that he was bored, that he didn't like the venue or he couldn't make conversation.

No, it really stemmed from how  _odd_ Mycroft looked. He government worker had changed from his usual suit (which was slimming and fit) to a polo and some nice trousers. They both probably cost about a week's pay for Greg, still, but he looked so  _uncomfortable._ Perhaps it was because Greg could see a bit more of Mycroft's stomach, or perhaps he disliked the material. Regardless, he was moving about in his seat so often that occasionally Greg put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down.

Other than that, Greg was delighted with it all. Initially, it'd been a bit odd. Greg had shown up and sat down, and then  _Mycroft_ had shown up. They'd stared at each other in silence, but it quickly became apparent that it was just like old times.

"Calm down, would you?" Greg told him with a grin, leaning over and pressing one hand to Mycroft's shoulder. "You're fidgety and you keep tugging your shirt down. Mycroft, you look  _fine,_ yeah? We're having a fun time. Stop worrying."

Mycroft properly gave him a little smile, and Greg's heart squeezed. Oh, hell, he was a  _goner –_ as strange and quirky as Mycroft was, Greg knew he was slowly going mad over him. "Yes. Yes, of course. My apologies. It's just been… _ages_ since I've gone anywhere for pleasure. Or, er, not pleasure, but-" He cut himself off and looked at Greg apologetically.

It seemed so damn uncharacteristic for him to be this fidgety, but it did give Greg a deeper look into the man behind the umbrella. And Greg liked it.

"We can talk about Sherlock, if y'want. That always seems to calm you down right enough. Did I tell you we've picked out a University for him? It's really a brilliant little place. I've already managed to get him a dormmate, and I really hope that they get on. His name's Sebastian. Wilkes, I think?"

Mycroft, indeed, did calm down. "I'll have to run a background check on him, of course. And I hope you intend on checking up on him now and then. Giving him a place to return home to during holidays, and such." A pause, and a sweet little smile. Greg's heart sang. "I really cannot thank you enough for taking him in, Gregory."

"You still won't call me Greg, will you?"

"Ah, no. That would be inappropriate, don't you think?"

"You're still doing better than Sherlock. 'Lestrade this, Lestrade that', honestly."

It was pleasant talk. Greg ate ravenously, feeling the pain of anyone who works long and unpredictable shifts. Soon, however, it became readily apparent that Mycroft was just picking. Not particularly eating anything, actually. Raising an eyebrow, Greg asked, "Far be it from you to shove food down your throat, but…"

Mycroft looked up at him for a second, his eyes flashing, and he replied in a monotone, "Diet."

"Aw, you? Live a little, Mycroft. I've heard about your work schedule, and you don't really get to eat often, do you?" Greg pressed, pointing his fork at him.

"Ah, no, but when I do, I must do so sparingly. Can hardly have an unfit politician."

At that, Greg could only give a roll of his eyes. "Unfit my arse. You're just not a skeleton, like your brother. If you want to worry about your health, that's all well and good, but you're looking  _brilliant_ while doing it."

What Mycroft did was strange, then. He looked down at his food and blinked twice, his eyes going blank. "Cruelty isn't a good colour on you, Inspecto-"

"What the hell are you going on about?" Despite the harsh tone of his words, he spoke in a smile. One hand went over to pull Mycroft's chin up so that they were looking at one another. When their eyes met, Mycroft flushed totally, bringing both the ginger roots in his hair and the freckles on his face. "You  _do_ look brilliant. Rather handsome, actually. Now eat."

Mycroft's eyes shone for a second, and Greg felt madly proud at himself. "Yes. Of course. Thank you, Gregory."

With that, Mycroft did eat a bit, and they continued to talk and laugh with one another. Although initially Mycroft had just gotten iced tea, after a bit of teasing, Greg had convinced him to order a beer. "Trying to intoxicate me, Inspector?" He asked with a smile, taking the glass and sipping at it. Apparently Mycroft's delicate sensibilities were a bit ruffled at it, because he wrinkled his nose.

"I couldn't ever get away with that, you know. What's the matter, Myc, are you too refined to drink a bit of lowly beer?" Greg asked him with a grin, sipping at his own glass. "I'll have you know I've cried into my booze many a time, and I think they taste a bit sweeter with tears."

"You're so poetic." For the first time that night, Mycroft reached over and cupped Greg's cheek. "Truly." The hand moved up to affectionately ruffle his hair, and Greg let out a short laugh.

As soon as Greg laughed again, Mycroft seemed a bit more content in tucking into his beer. He only finished one, with protests of, "If anyone sees me, it  _will_ ruin my reputation, Gregory!" and Greg didn't press him. Soon their plates were pushed aside and they were both leaning over the table in order to talk more clearly with one another. More specifically, Greg was speaking and Mycroft looked madly comfortable with falling into a pit of laughter.

"I cannot see how you've put up with him so  _long,_ Gregory! Even  _I_ took to being the head of every program at school, just so I could be away from home a bit longer!"

"Oi, don't say that about your brother. You love him just as much as I do. As annoying a git as he is sometimes."

"You're so kind to him, Gregory. You're so  _kind._ How on Earth have I not heard of you before now?"

"Aw, I'm not anything but a Detective Inspector that probably won't rise much of anywhere. I'm fine with it, honestly. "

Mycroft leaned across the table and looked at Greg. Greg, very quickly, understood that this was Mycroft's  _business_ face. "You've never been properly reimbursed for taking care of my brother. Perhaps not in my current position, but when I'm able, I certainly wouldn't mind elevating you. All perfectly legal, of course, I certainly consider you to be _more_ than worthy-"

"Uh uh. None of that, Myc." Greg waved his finger in front of him. "This date's been pretty good so far. Don't ruin it. Nervous enough, dating someone as important as you."

"Me? Important? Surely you jest, Gregory, I'm only a government official." Mycroft told him, a warm smile spreading across his face.

"Sure, sweetheart." At the term of endearment, Mycroft blushed furiously yet again. "It's getting late. I should probably get home and make sure Sherlock's not blown anything up.  _If_ he's even home."

Mycroft nodded and immediately pulled out his wallet. Greg put out a hand to stop him, shaking his head. "No,  _I_ asked, I'm paying. Put your hand back in your trousers."

"Gregory, I will not budge upon this matter.  _And_ I'll get you home, Gregory. I've had a simply marvelous time and I haven't done anything like this in a long, long while. So it's merely repaying you."

Greg opened his mouth to protest again, but at Mycroft's cold look, he thought against it. Still, as they shared a cab back to Greg's flat, Greg managed to pay the cabbie before Mycroft did. As Greg put a hand on his doorknob and opened the front door, he glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Mycroft. "Hey. Thanks for all this, it was really-"

Before he could get out the next words, suddenly soft arms were around his neck and he was pushed inside of his flat. Admittedly shocked, Greg's arms initially went to his chest to push him off. Then he realized what he was doing and his arms tightened around Mycroft's waist as he pulled him into the flat.

 _God,_ he was  _so_ damn soft. They only parted when they both needed to gasp for air, and then Greg was usually the one to swoop back down again. It didn't even occur to Greg that Sherlock might be home, or that Sherlock would be a bit uncomfortable with his brother snogging someone.

As Mycroft was the one who pushed him inside the flat, it seemed fitting that Greg was the one to move Mycroft towards the couch. Mycroft let out a contented noise in the back of his throat as Greg pushed one hand through his hair. When Greg pushed him and Mycroft on the couch, Mycroft chuckled and tugged playfully at Greg's hair. "Is this…?"

"Yes. Fine. Brilliant, actually." Greg told him, hovering above Mycroft for a second. Mycroft was red-faced and breathing a bit heavy, and Greg just leaned down to kiss him again.

 _God,_ was he really going to shag a government official on his first date?

By the sounds Mycroft was making, the answer to that was a wholehearted yes. Greg chuckled, and it was when he reached down to the waistband of Mycroft's trousers did he hear a noise.

"I know what you said about going into crime scenes, Lestrade, but  _honestly,_ this one's just being so horribly  _mishandled,_ I couldn't  _imagine_ –" Sherlock Holmes himself strode into the room, wearing a black coat that Greg hadn't seen before. Granted, at the time, Greg wasn't paying too much attention to what  _Sherlock_ was wearing.

Still, he didn't think he'd ever moved so fast in his life.

He pried himself off of Mycroft, sitting straight and reaching for a pillow to put over his lap. Mycroft scooted to the other side of the couch and re-fastened his trousers, staring with flushed cheeks over at Sherlock.

Everything was horrendously silent for a few seconds. Or days.

_Goddammit._

"Why do you  _always_ have to ruin  _everything!?"_ Sherlock hissed at his brother, tossing the manila folder he'd been clutching at him. The folder hit Mycroft in the chest and fell to the floor, scattering papers everywhere. Greg twitched once and reached over to squeeze Mycroft's wrist.

Mycroft shook him off.

It was the strangest thing in the world, to see Mycroft go into 'fight-mode'. The blush slid away from his face, he smoothed down his trousers, he stood up to his full height. Standing straight, he was two inches, at least, taller than Sherlock. His face was a solid sheet of ice.

Sherlock didn't back down. If anything, he tried to stand  _taller_ than his full-height, and he was glaring at his brother intensely. It was as if Greg wasn't even in the damn room.

"My activities in my free time do not concern you."

"They do when they concern  _him."_

"Gregory has no part in this. He does not belong to you."

"He doesn't belong to  _you,_ either."

"Correct. What Gregory chooses to do in his free time is of his own will." At his apparent defeat of Sherlock's logic, Mycroft let out a little smirk.

Sherlock returned with a terse, " _As if you'd even be doing this if he wasn't taking care of me. I know what you're doing."_

Greg had to commend Mycroft, then, for not slapping Sherlock outright. Maybe he would have, if Greg hadn't spoken up right then. "Hey, Sherlock, that was uncalled for. Say sorry to your-"

" _Stay out of this, Lestrade!"_

_"You've no business in this, Gregory!"_

Although he managed a short, " _Damn_ straight I don't,", Greg didn't speak up again.

Mycroft retorted icily, "Gregory happens to be a very enjoyable gentleman, and I shan't break off my relations with him just because it intrudes upon you. I've done enough of that already."

Sherlock looked at Greg, then. At first, it was an angry glare, enough to make Greg want to tell Sherlock to get the hell back to his room, who the hell was he to look at Greg that way. Then it softened into something…hurt. Betrayed, even. His heart twitched uncomfortably. " _Why_ the  _hell_ would Lestrade be interested in you!? If he's with you for anything, it would be for your prominent position, nothing else! He's  _using_ you, isn't that obvious!" Then, the final word: " _Observe!"_

Mycroft blinked and didn't respond to Sherlock's outburst hotly. His words were stony, a sharp contrast to Sherlock, who was stomping his foot on the ground like a toddler. "You've known him long enough, now, to know that Gregory isn't capable of such malice." His eyes swiveled over to Greg, sitting oddly on the couch. "I know."

Sherlock watched the two with obvious anger and then stamped his foot, one more time, on the ground. Finally, he shouted outright, "As if he's ever going to love a  _fat bastard_ like you!"

Then he ran out the front door.

Mycroft twitched once before letting his shoulders fall. In despair, he made his way over to the couch and collapsed, his head immediately going into his hands. He didn't make any movement to acknowledge Greg.

"Wow. That was rough. Look, honey, he's seventeen. He's a kid. He doesn't know what he's saying, and he's just upset."

Mycroft's voice was quiet. "I know."

Grunting, Greg scooted over to him and put his arm around his shoulders. One kiss, delivered gently, was placed against his hair. Mycroft looked at him as if he'd never been comforted like that before, and Greg just gave him a smile. "Everything's going to be okay, My. Look, why don't I go out and get him? It's been a brilliant night, really, and we'll have it again. But you and I both know we've got to go and make sure that crazy bloke's okay."

Mycroft's voice was quiet. "I know."


	8. Eight

"Your taste in movies, Gregory," Mycroft murmured, his arm firmly wrapped around Greg's middle as the duo lounged upon Greg's patchwork sofa, "Is truly awful. My dear Inspector, can't you even pick a  _tolerable_ mystery?"

One of Greg's arms was put upon Mycroft's shoulders, huddling him to his left side, while his right hand kept the clicker far away from the politician's grasp. "It's either this or the Arsenal game, honeybun. Besides, you know you bloody  _love_ finding out who did it before any of the characters do. You can't play any games with me."

It'd been three months since Sherlock had walked in on Greg and Mycroft snogging on the couch. First date embarrassances aside, their relationship had blossomed beautifully. To the point where Greg found it the most natural thing in the world to cuddle with Mycroft in the most domestic of manners while they watched some half-arsed mystery.

Of course Sherlock still wasn't fond of it, but if Greg had to choose between having  _this_ brilliant man in his life or a few more sulky stares from Sherlock...well. It wasn't even a choice, really.

It was sweet.

He would have been willing to knock that adjective up to  _perfect_ if it hadn't been for the curly-haired little troublemaker himself. Although Greg was getting to the point where he wouldn't trade Mycroft Holmes for anything in the world, he wished like  _hell_ Sherlock would learn to behave. Of course he'd never been a choir boy, of course he got in trouble, but it was getting so much worse.

It was just about a month until Sherlock left for University. Mycroft had suggested, rather sullenly, that they postpone their relationship until Sherlock left. Greg's response was that Sherlock was a  _damn seventeen-year-old man,_ he could handle his big brother in a relationship. So they kept going on.

Sherlock had set a fire in the girl's bathroom at school, had poisoned two of the school's shining rugby players (not drastically, thank  _God),_ got caught smoking cigarettes, again in the girl's bathroom, broken into the Yard and talked with some of the criminals in the overnight cells, and stolen a few files without Greg's permission. To Greg's knowledge, he hadn't snuck into any crime scenes yet…but then again, Greg didn't know much.

For the first time in his life, Greg was so thankful that Sherlock didn't like people. If Sherlock had, he was fairly certain that he'd bring home a pregnant lass just out of rebellion.

"You're thinking about him again, aren't you?" Mycroft's voice wasn't accusing, or jealous, or hurt. It was simply concerned. He raised his free hand to stroke against Greg's stubble, and Greg turned to press a kiss to his palm.

"Yeah. I'm just worrying about him, you know? I thought that he'd get better, I don't know, maybe settle down a tad. If anything, he's just getting worse, and I just…I don't want him to get into the drugs again." Greg admitted, his eyes staring straight forward to the dull glow of the telly.

"I would try to reassure you that he shan't, or that he has learned enough lessons from you to know not to…but I cannot say either. Even I cannot imagine what is going on in that strange mind of his." Mycroft murmured. "Do you know where he is, now?"

"He  _says_ he's going to the library, and I know he's not, and he knows that I know he's not. I can't do anything about it, though, and it drives me  _mad._ He's going to get himself  _killed,_ Mycroft, and he doesn't even have the bloody  _brains-"_

"You're getting worked up again, Gregory." Mycroft reminded him with a gentle kiss to his temple. Greg hadn't even realized that he was shouting before Mycroft quieted him down. "I know, I know. I feel as if the  _Sherlock_ question is on everyone's minds, particularly yours and mine. I am confident that we will both try our hardest to keep the man safe. Do you understand that?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Now, Gregory, I can nearly  _feel_ how exhausted and worried you are. Try to watch the movie, yes? It will calm you, if nothing else." Mycroft explained to him, in that soft, soothing voice that Greg was sure he used to calm down irate government officials.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully. Greg fell asleep first, so he couldn't be certain how long Mycroft stayed up. They hadn't even moved from the couch. He woke stiffly, with his arm drooping to loop around Mycroft's chest, and Mycroft's head was propped back, his mouth open.

He pried himself off of the man and smiled down at him. There were times when Greg thought he was turning into a bleeding-heart romantic, and this was one of them. He was getting awfully pathetic.

Padding to the kitchen, he started to fry up some breakfast. Mycroft's schedule had become as well-rehearsed as his own, and Greg was  _ecstatic_ at the idea that they didn't have to go in until noon. Mycroft had gotten in the habit of keeping his domestic things over at Greg's. Really, sometimes it felt as if Mycroft lived there.

"You've a beached whale on your couch."

"Good morning to you, too, Sherlock." Greg chirped, not turning around from the stove. He rustled the pan before him as he heard Sherlock sit in the chair. "What time did you get in?"

"I cannot comprehend what you're speaking of, Lestrade, I was at home the entire day yesterday."

"Yesterday was Tuesday. You had school."

"So I did."

_Deep breaths, Greg. Deep breaths. Just try and get him out to school on time, just try and convince him to not do anything stupid, check his pockets before he goes, maybe have a little morning shag with Mycroft before he heads off to work._

Sherlock clinked a bit of his silverware for a second, before commenting dryly, "You've only set three places, Lestrade. Shouldn't you need to set four, to accommodate Mycroft's extra chin?"

"Can you  _not?"_ Greg hissed at him, flipping the bacon over. "We're going to sit down and have a nice breakfast as a goddamn family. I'm not going to hear any comments out of you, and I swear to God, Sherlock, if you get into trouble today, I'm locking you in a Yard cell. Understand?"

"Perfectly. Oh, dear, I believe I hear the mountains moving."

Mycroft shuffled his way into the kitchen, looking uncharacteristically meek. Despite Sherlock's gagging noises, he sidled up behind Greg and pressed his arms around the man's middle. He leaned forward to kiss Greg's cheek affectionately before making his way to his seat. The chair creaked a little as he sat down on it and Sherlock snickered.

"Bacon and eggs okay for you, My? I've been trying to force as much food into Sherlock as possible."

"Are you sure you want to feed him, Lestrade? I've heard that if you feed a stray, it won't ever leave. This one might have fleas."

"I'm surprised that wasn't turned into a humorous jab at my weight, brother dear."

"What on  _Earth_ are you talking about? Your weight's perfectly fine. Well, actually, now that you mention it-"

"Sherlock,  _please-"_

"Gregory, it's totally and completely  _fine-"_

 _"_ Brother, stop interrupting your fuckbud-"

" _Stop!"_ Greg growled at the two of them, turning around. Mycroft was sitting straight back in his chair, as cool as can be…to the outside observer, anyway. Greg could notice that the corners of his lips were twitching and his fists sat balled in his lap. Sherlock had stood up and had pushed the chair back suddenly, making a godawful scraping sound across the linoleum. "We're  _not_ having this right now, the two of you." A minor protest of 'Gregory, I didn't  _do_ anything!' came from Mycroft. "You're going to sit down, and eat, and then we're going to leave."

Sherlock sat down. Mycroft unballed his fists. They sat in awkward silence while Greg finished up breakfast, and then he sat down everyone's plates. He sat next to Mycroft. A pang of guilt hit him – Mycroft didn't really  _do_ anything. Underneath the table, he attempted to take Mycroft's hand, but the man wouldn't allow him to do so. If Sherlock hadn't been around, Greg would have leaned over and nuzzled him. Nibbled his ear a bit.

But, Sherlock was around.

Sherlock took every opportunity to scrape his silverware across the plate, while Mycroft might as well have been eating with the Queen. They continued eating in silence, with Greg occasionally trying to grab for Mycroft's hand underneath the table.

Suddenly, Mycroft began to cough as he sipped his coffee. "Ah-apologies-bitter." He coughed out, shaking his head and bringing up his arm. "Could you get me some water, Gregory?"

"Yes, hon, of course." He gave Mycroft a hearty pat on the back and stood up to go to the sink. As he poured, he heard Sherlock's voice, bitter and cold.

"Oh, just let him choke. Nobody really wants him, anyway."

" _Sher_ -lock!" Greg chastised him, "For God's sake, can you stop acting like such an inhuman  _freak_ for just a second-"

"Gregory, you've  _no_ right to speak to my brother that way!" Mycroft hissed from his side of the table, standing up and glaring daggers into Greg's skin.

"What the  _hell_ are you going on about, Mycroft, I'm just trying to stand up for you!" Greg complained as he whipped around from the sink. "Sherlock's been acting like a _bastard_ to you ever since he first woke up and-"

"Can't you use your brain for a second and  _think_ about  _why,_ perhaps, Sherlock is acting this way instead of just lashing out at-"

"Don't you  _dare_ turn this into a goddamn psychiatrist appointment, Mycroft Holmes!"

"I'm not; you're merely being too  _idiotic_ to recognize the obvious!"

"Oh, I'm stupid now, aren't I? That's not what you were  _screaming_ last nigh-"

"Immaturity and stupidity. Bravo, Inspector, bravo."

Sherlock just sat back and enjoyed the conflict. His smile wasn't dissimilar from a cat who had just swallowed a canary. After Mycroft's mock praise, he simply slid out of his chair and left the front door. Mycroft stayed for a few seconds, as cold and icy as the water in his glass. Greg was nearly boiling over. Finally, Mycroft humphed. "Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all, Inspector."

"Yeah? Yeah?" God, he was almost like a man about to start a fight at a pub.  _You wanna go, mate!?_  "Maybe it wasn't, then!"

And Mycroft was out the door.

It was the most miserable couple of hours.

However, Gregory Lestrade had always found solace in his work, however inept he was at it. He slunk his way into his office, where the young intern Sally Donovan (bit brown-nosy, yes, but Greg appreciated her all the same) handed him a cup of coffee. "Rough night, Inspector?"

"Rough morning, more like. Can I just have something that's  _not_ terribly important today, Sally?" Greg asked her, glancing up with piteous eyes.

Sally smiled. There were few people the young woman smiled genuinely with, but she realized that Greg could give barely any input as to when she would be promoted, so she acted normally with him. "I can try and see, sir."

Paperwork.

Until the sun was setting low in the sky, paperwork. Until the words bled before his eyes, paperwork. Until Greg could feel his hand ache and his mouth grow dry, paperwork.

_Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork, paperwork._

It was only when he noticed that the clock read eight PM did he stand up and stretch. Eight hour shift. That was all he was working that day. And he wanted to get home, to send an apologetically sappy call to Mycroft, and, hell, maybe even apologise to Sherlock for blowing up. That was  _all_ he wanted. However, as he made his way out, Sally Donovan stopped him once again. "Sir?"

"Mm?"

"Sherlock Holmes has been brought in. They say he was high when they found him. Couple of needles on him, too. They've locked him up, but you can see him if you want. Don't know if he's conscious."

Greg's heart squeezed in his chest.  _No._ Sally was lying, Sally was pulling his arse, Sally wasn't saying that Sherlock had…no. God, no. It was the most panicked Greg had ever been in his life, standing there across from her. His face went pale and his heartbeat quickened, but that was entirely small potatoes to what Greg was feeling on the inside. It was indescribable.

He made his way to the holding cells.

And, thank God, he wasn't alone.

Sherlock was laying there on the makeshift cot. It was clear that his nose had been bleeding, but it'd been carelessly wiped away. He was pale, and his fingers twitched in his sleep. His breathing was ragged. He looked exactly like Greg had found him ( _shit,_ was it nearly a year ago?) in that alley. Less than eighteen. A child. A kid. His heart squeezed.

Mycroft was there, too.

He was sitting there in a perfectly pressed suit. When Greg had first met Mycroft, he had seen him as younger than he really was. Now, he seemed much too old for his youthful face. His umbrella point was on the ground, and it was clear that Mycroft was leaning on it. He stared at his brother without sorrow and without compassion. Just staring.

Had it really been this morning when they'd been yelling at each other?

"Mycroft." He whispered, falling into place beside him as he stared at Sherlock. In the strangest possible way, he felt as if they were two parents looking over their child. Almost on cue, Sherlock let out a childlike whimper in his sleep. "Mycroft, I…I don't know what to say."

"He didn't attend school." Greg had to look at Mycroft twice to make sure the man had really spoke. "According to the report, he went straight to his source and purchased as much as he could. Residents in the vicinity say that he started up an amateur detective business for money. He hasn't attended school in…a week."

All of Greg's breath left him as he stared back at Sherlock. He should've  _noticed._ It was his job to  _notice_ things. Sherlock always told him that he  _saw,_ never  _observed,_ and Christ, Greg knew that more than anything now. But Mycroft needed comfort. Even Greg could see that. So he raised an arm to put around Mycroft's shoulders, and the government cleared its throat and shrugged him off.

The Ice Man looked at him and asked, simply enough, "Inspector Lestrade, can you realise what you are currently feeling and honestly tell me that  _caring_ is an  _advantage?"_ The words 'caring' and 'advantage' were spat out of him as if they were poisonous.

Sherlock might as well have been his son.

Mycroft…hell, he never said it, but he knew he loved that man.

And they'd both caused more pain than he ever thought he'd have in a lifetime. Happiness, too, but at that moment, with Sherlock just a few more grams to death and Mycroft looking like a statue, he had to ask himself if it was worth it anymore.

"Guess not." Greg responded, taking his arm back.

"In light of recent events, I don't believe that our relationship will work." Mycroft responded, his voice smooth and curt. "My brother simply cannot handle me having any sort of interpersonal relationship. Along with that, I believe my political aspirations will make me an unfit partner for you. Given your positive traits, you will find another."

"And you won't?"

"Sociopathy is wired into my personality, Inspector. It is  _difficult_ for me to cultivate promising relationships. It nearly killed me to undergo one with you. To be alone is natural. Alone, Inspector, protects me."

Usually, Greg would have argued. Told him that Mycroft was fantastic when he was with someone. This time, however, with a hurt teenager in front of him, he couldn't. There were just times when he needed to pull his trousers up and not worry about  _feelings._ It was Sherlock's  _life_ they were speaking of. "Right. And you'll want to put him in a rehabilitation center?"

"As difficult as this may be for you to believe, Inspector, Sherlock has done better with you than any building or instructor. He shall only be in your care for another month, regardless, and then he'll be on his own. At Uni, I will be able to monitor him more closely. And, perhaps, he'll have less to rebel against there."

Greg was dumbstruck. "You think this is all rebellion, don't you? Sherlock's gotten just a tad angry and he decided to have it out against you?"

Mycroft sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I realise that he's an addict, Inspector. I realise that. I am only speaking of the fact that Sherlock  _can_ recuperate whenever he wants to. He'll want to when he has more stimuli for his brain, which he will find in University. That brings me to my next point, Inspector. I want him to live with you, again, which I'm sure you've figured out. However, I want you to bring him along to crime scenes."

"Mycroft, that's so bloody  _illegal."_

"He's shown an interest in the detective business and he has found solace in the cases you've brought him. I will make sure that you do not get harmed for it, just as I will make sure he receives no charges here. I just want you to bring him on cases with you. Will you do it?" Mycroft's eyes lighted on his brother again. "For him?"

"You really want our last morning together to be you and me yelling at each other over your brother?" Greg asked softly. Damn it. It was made him a poor Inspector – always worrying about his own feelings. Perhaps, in dealing with the Holmes' brothers, it made him hyperaware of how human he always was. "It's just…gone, just like that?"

Mycroft looked at Greg with the saddest eyes Greg had ever seen on him. As if it physically pained him, he leaned over and pressed a firm kiss against Greg's lips. "If I could change this, Gregory, any of this, you must believe that I would. If I could care for you and care for my brother, I would be the luckiest man in London. But you will live, and I will live. Will you?"

Greg realized it was just a repetition of his previous question rather than a question as to whether Greg would live. Mycroft knew that he'd get through it. Gregory Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes had the child from hell; they'd get through a break-up.

He returned the kiss, his fingers settling on Mycroft's hips. Finally, he leaned back. His hand went to intertwine with Mycroft's, and he squeezed him, once, before he took back his own hand. "For that crazy little bugger? Anything."

When he turned around to look at Mycroft again, he was gone.


	9. Nine

"You're not going to leave my sight. You'll only do what I tell you to do, you won't question any of the people on the crime scene, and above all, Sherlock, you've got to remember that I am doing my  _job._ This isn't a game. This isn't a case file. Someone died tonight, and we've got to find out who did it. Don't turn this into a game, Sherlock." Greg mumbled to him as they stood side-by-side in his tiny bathroom. He was slowly shaving the stubble off his cheek as Sherlock leaned against the wall, staring at him.

The break-up had been final, and Greg knew he'd been a bit more depressed the past couple weeks. It wasn't as if he was even angry. It was a mutual agreement between them. But the worst part was that he  _wasn't_ angry. He still thought Mycroft the sweetest, most caring, most attractive, most intelligent man in London. And the mere fact that they weren't together anymore when Greg was still so infatuated with him was maddening. Hell, he had almost wished Mycroft turned out to be a bastard or a cheat – it would make this whole breaking up business a lot easier.

On the good side, though, Sherlock understood very early on that he and Mycroft were no longer a couple. And…well, he wouldn't call it gratitude, but Sherlock was behaving differently. Now, Greg didn't wake up to bangs and smashes from the bedroom. Now, Sherlock was quickly striving to be the best in his class. Now, he responded to questions about University with enthusiasm.

And, now, most importantly, Sherlock  _ate._

Perhaps out of gratitude, Sherlock's body responded to this fact quickly. He had sprouted up a good fifteen centrimetres, Greg could no longer feel his ribs, and he seemed to have more of a shine in his eyes. Greg gave him drug tests on a weekly basis, but he was never confident that they'd bring up anything. It was strange.

This one little lapse of Sherlock's was probably the best thing that could happen to the eighteen-year-old.

The withdrawals came back on occasion, and Sherlock's fingers twitched almost constantly, but he seemed  _happier._

Of course, that could also have been because Greg had finally agreed to take him to a crime scene.

It was a murder, yes, but not particularly gory. A poisoning. Poor bloke was probably poisoned by his ex-wife, from what the report said. Open and shut, but hopefully it would satisfy Sherlock's cravings for cases.

Besides, he'd promised Mycroft.

So, soon, they were bustling about to the case. Sherlock commented dryly about how it wasn't his first time in the back of a police car, and Greg laughed out loud. Things were almost the way they had been, before Mycroft Holmes had come along.

 _And mucked it all up,_  a voice chirped in the back of his mind.

Well, maybe that was the way things were meant to be. Maybe Greg Lestrade just wasn't suited for a relationship. Maybe he just  _cared_ too much to ever be in a proper relationship. Yes, he decided. That was it. Greg cared too much to ever be with someone, because either they hurt him or other people needed him more. It wouldn't be an unhappy life, he thought to himself, if just a tad lonely.

But, hell, he was never a philosopher. Even in promising that to himself, he knew that he'd be searching for someone else within a month or two.

"You're thinking about him again, aren't you?" Sherlock asked him with a poke to his shoulder, and Greg grinned over at him. He gave him a caring shove against the window of the car.

"Who, your brother? Nah. That was ages ago, mate, get with the times. I was just thinking about the case and how you and one of the interns would make a  _very_ lovely couple."

For what it was worth, Sherlock blushed completely and shifted in his seat. It was one of the times where Greg was reminded that Sherlock was a teenage boy – and a very lonely one at that. Perhaps a girlfriend  _would_ do good for him. Then again, the only relationship he'd seen lately was his and Mycroft's, and  _that_ had ended spectacularly.

"Would that please you? If I…acquired a mate, as it were?"

Greg nearly collapsed into laughter. "I wouldn't phrase it  _quite_ like that, Sherls, but yeah, it'd make me pretty happy to see you with someone. You need someone who loves you, and knows when to call you out on your shite."

Sherlock seemed pleased as punch over that. He smiled at Greg and gave a small nod. "Yes. Just one date, then, if it would please you. And she agrees, of course. Is she…pleasant, this woman?"

Shrugging his shoulders, Greg turned into the crime scene and leaned over to affectionately ruffle Sherlock's hair. "She's pleasant enough, yeah. Smart as a whip, too. You need advice on how to ask a woman out?"

"I know how to ask a woman out!" Sherlock snapped at him, blushing in earnest. With that, Greg stepped out of the car and headed onto the crime scene.

There was always a strange bit of unrest that came over the majority of the team during the first few minutes of a crime scene. The reminder that there was a body there, cold and devoid of life, seemed to hit everyone hard. Greg caught a few depressed faces as they shoved by him. Sally Donovan was there, looking over the body with interest. She, at the very least, seemed upbeat. Sherlock followed behind him and he gave a small, shy smile as he saw Sally there.

For the second time that night, Greg marveled at how young Sherlock seemed. He was just a boy.

"I'm going to go look around the crime scene, alright?" Greg asked him with a small thump to his back. "You stay here with Sally. If I here you getting into trouble, I'll force you to get a job in banking."

With that, Greg disappeared.

The rest of the crime scene was rather nondescript. It was exactly what Greg had expected – the ex-wife. Always the damn ex-wife, he thought fondly to himself. He only saw glimpses of Sherlock once or twice. The boy seemed intent on getting both an accurate view of the crime scene and chatting amiably with Sally Donovan. Greg was happy.

It was late when the crime scene started to draw to a close. The men were starting to clean up when Sherlock rushed over to him, tugging at Greg's sleeve insistently. His eyes were bright and he was nearly buzzing with excitement. "I'm going to go eat with Sally. We're going to go discuss about the crime scene. It's  _so_  fascinating, Lestrade, an absolute puzzle!"

_The ex-wife did it. That's obvious, isn't it? Why on Earth is this 'fascinating' to Sherlock, then?_

Regardless, Greg let him go and returned back home. The entire way, he was musing about what he and Sally were speaking of during their little date. It was only when it reached eleven PM that Greg started to get worried for him. And he was outright  _frantic_ when the clock struck three in the morning. He kept calling people who had the night shift, asking if there were any accidents around any restaurants.

Finally, it was around four when there was a knock at the door. Greg was there in an instant.

There, in the most pitiful manner possible, was a red-faced Sherlock Holmes. And a drawn, austere Mycroft.

"His date ended badly, as one could expect. Do take care of him, Inspector Lestrade, he seems to be quite upset. My gratitude for taking him to a crime scene."

Greg just stared at Mycroft for a few seconds, and it was only then that he realized how miserable he was. How much he just wanted to drag Mycroft inside and curl up with him on the sofa, or how much he wanted to cook for him and see him blush as Greg fed him food. But he couldn't, because in that same few seconds, he realized that Sherlock's red face was not a blush, but a sign that Sherlock had been crying. Greg's next question was obvious.

"He hasn't taken anything?"

"No, of course not. His distress, at least this time, is completely human, Inspector." Mycroft replied, pushing Sherlock inside without much caring. Greg was a bit shocked at that. The man who loved his brother so just shoving him inside as if he were a dog. However, he didn't say anything, as Sherlock stumbled right into his chest. "Goodbye."

Then, as if he were from a dream, he shut the door and left. As he went to shut the door, Greg instinctually leaned forward to keep it open. As he did so, his fingers and Mycroft's brushed, and he heard a sharp intake of break from Mycroft. Then Greg just let him shut the door.

As soon as he did, Sherlock burst into tears.

He'd never seen Sherlock cry before. It was absolutely shocking to feel Sherlock completely break down in his arms, to feel the man grasp onto the front of the shirt and absolutely drench the front of it, to feel the boy's heart break in front of him. And, for a good while, he just held Sherlock like that, before he slowly walked Sherlock to the couch and sat him down. He hugged Sherlock close to his side, squeezing his eyes tight. "Sherls. God, Sherls, what happened?"

"She-She-" Sherlock started and stopped to sob into Greg's shirt. Indeed, it was a good twenty minutes before he had calmed himself down enough to talk. "We went to Chinese, and we…we were talking about the crime scene. And she said I must have been intelligent, smart, brilliant, and it…I felt  _good,_ Lestrade, I felt  _good…_ so I decided to prove that I  _w-was_ brilliant, so I deduced a few of the customers, and she thought it was funny, so I deduced her…" His voice reached a wailing volume. "And then she called me a  _freak!"_

Greg realized that, to outsiders, Sherlock must have seemed entirely emotional. Then again, those people wouldn't know Sherlock Holmes. To know that the man didn't get close to anyone unless he was forced. And now, he had gone on a date, he had opened what little heart he had to someone else, and to have them completely insult it. So he was broken. Sherlock Holmes was broken and sobbing into his chest, so Greg just held him.

"When…the last time I saw your brother, Sherls." Greg spoke softly, and he let Sherlock place his head against his shoulder. "He told me that caring wasn't an advantage. He told me that things will always end like this. And…you know. I think that I believe him. I don't think caring's a good thing, anymore."

The Greg from two months ago would have been absolutely stupefied at this advance. Indeed, even now, the words felt hollow and insincere. Perhaps a little part of Greg honestly believed it, but he knew his heart sure didn't.

Regardless, Sherlock seemed to take that as the gospel truth. He sniffed and leaned back from Greg, nodding his head and rubbing his eyes. "Y-yes. Caring is…bad. Alone is good. Alone…protects people. Doesn't it, Greg?"

It was the first time that he had heard Sherlock refer to him by his first name and Greg felt his heart squeeze in pain. Leaning forward, he drew Sherlock into a tight hug. The boy went limp. "Go to bed, Sherls. I'll see you in the morning."

Three months later. It was fair to see that Sherlock had become more withdrawn, more distant. He was eating less – not as if he were particularly depressed or unhappy, but more because he forgot to. Busier, out more often. Grades were slipping again. It was almost exactly how he had acted when he and Mycroft were still a thing.

It'd taken approximately one week for Greg to regret his advice. Sherlock had become distant, cold, and absolutely scathing to every single one of his team. Many hated him. The ones that didn't were frightened of him. And Greg was miserable about that, but, as per Mycroft's request, he still kept taking him.

"This one'll be a bit dull, Sherlock. Just a drowning. Some kid at a swim meet. Poor thing, he was really young. Little bit younger than you, I think? God, it's a real shame."

Sherlock spoke up from the couch, his voice a low drawl. " _Facts,_ Lestrade, not your own pathetic commentary."

"Carl Powers is his name. You'll see the rest tonight, I suppose." Greg responded to him gruffly as he pulled on his jacket. "Hurry up, won't you?"

"I'll go by myself."

That had been a new habit with Sherlock, and Greg wasn't too keen on it. Although Greg still imposed the one drug test per week rule, Sherlock had taken to walking to crime scenes on his own. Without Greg accompanying him. He somehow got there on time, every time, and Greg didn't know how the mad, brilliant bloke did it.

He drove there in silence. Of course there'd been the urge to get another partner, and a few times, yeah, he'd been to a bar to drink. But Mycroft's words rung in his head about caring, and all Greg could think about was warm Mycroft, randy Mycroft, cuddling Mycroft. It was stupid and idiotic and Greg would give anything in the world to forget him.

Nothing like a little drowning to pick the spirits up.

There was something different when the victim was a child, though. Nobody made any morbid jokes. Nobody cracked a smile, or laughed. And, worst of all, nobody would ever say that it was a murder. It was pretty obvious, regardless – poor thing had drowned during a swim meet. Who wanted to say that, by the by, this kid, who had a sister and a family who loved him, was murdered?

Sherlock was being especially quiet this time around. In the pool, nobody spoke. The only sound, really, was Sherlock dashing to and fro. To the body, to the pool, to the kid's locker. And suddenly, for Greg, it all became too much. He felt like he was gasping for air.

So, Greg indulged in a habit that he hadn't indulged in for a very long time.

Standing outside the pool, Gregory lit up a cigarette and blew on it. It burned the inside of his mouth, and he only felt  _more_ claustrophobic with it. Grunting in pain, he tossed it out on the ground and grinded his heel upon it.

"Trouble, Inspector?"

As he turned around, he saw Mycroft under the warm glow of a streetlight. For a second, he forgot completely about their past and the promise he had made to Mycroft. And, in that instant, he only thought how gorgeous Mycroft Holmes was.

Indeed, Mycroft had strode over to him and was standing by his side before Greg thought to respond to him. "No, no, fine. Just…kids, you know? Kids always get me." He broke out into a soft smile, if a tad exasperated. "And your brother's just gallivanting around in there as if it's the most natural thing in the world to be doing."

"Yes, well, he's never quite learned social tact, I'm afraid. You don't think anything less of him for it, do you?" Mycroft asked softly.

"'Course I don't. I don't think I ever could, at this point. Even if he came home with a pregnant girl and some bloke's head in his hands, I couldn't think any less of him."

"Not taking my advice to heart, then."

"I think you being here shows that you're not taking it either, mate." Greg told him, reaching over and giving him a hearty pat on the back.

And, in that instant, Greg felt as if he had aged a good few decades since he had first met Sherlock Holmes. Really, his life had changed  _so much._ Now he felt a bit more responsible. He had Sherlock to take care of, and even if Sherlock never asked for it, Greg knew that Sherlock always had to be taken care of. Even if Sherlock grew up and became a rabid psychopath (which Greg was sincerely hoping not), he knew that he'd always welcome the man home with open arms. Why?

Because Greg had seen him crying and sobbing, shaking and seizing, laughing and loving. Sherlock was his son, if not in blood then in feeling.

The realization made him open his eyes and look at Mycroft as if he were seeing him for the first time.

"Are you sure everything's alright, Inspector?" Mycroft probed him again, reaching over and grasping his upper arm. "You don't seem well."

Greg nodded at him, looking up and shrugging the man's arm off. "Me? Yeah, fine. How've you been, by the way? Sherlock's been doing well. Look at him. He was born to do this."

"He was, was he not? I'm quite pleased by his progress. I've been doing quite well, Inspector, thank you for ask-"

At that, the entire world seemed to go to shit.

"How on  _Earth_ could you mistreat this case so  _badly!?"_ The voice was loud and demanding from within the pool. "It's  _obvious_  what it  _was!_ Why would someone who was on the swim team  _drown,_ even if it was an allergic reaction or whatever bullcrock you're pulling up!? And why won't anyone listen!? Has anyone even seen his shoes!" Sherlock was stomping around the pool as the other members of the team stared in horror. "His  _shoes_! Where are they!? Can't you  _see!?_ Why is everyone here so blind!? Why can't anyone, _anyone!,_ ever see!?"

At that, there was a brief pause, and Sherlock looked vaguely towards the top of the building. His eyes widened and he took a step back.

There was a bright red spot in front of his chest, and Sherlock seemed to go into shock. Just staring up there as if it was the most horrifying and fascinating thing in the world.

Both Mycroft and Greg started to run towards him. The rest of the people on the team were immobile. Things were going so slowly for both men, though they both saw different things. Greg only saw the red dot on Sherlock's chest, saw the boy's fear apparent on his face, realized that this was the first time that Sherlock had encountered a life-or-death situation that wasn't his bloody overdoses. That wasn't self-imposed. That, for the first time in his life, his life was placed in someone else's hands.

Mycroft, for the first time in his life, didn't  _observe_ anything. Instead, he only saw the four-year-old boy who, clutching a bee plush to his chest, asked Mycroft how the older brother could see things about people without being told about them.

In the end, they both ran for Sherlock.

It was really a matter about who got to the red dot first.

Mycroft didn't feel any pain. He felt the blood soaking through his shirt first, right where his heart would be, and then he fell to the floor with an unholy smash.


	10. Ten

There was a sickening silence as the blood bloomed over Mycroft's shirt. Mycroft looked just as shocked as Greg did, one plump hand going to gently prod at his chest. A light 'oh' left the aspiring politician and he initially fell to his knees, and then completely onto his stomach.

Sherlock's face was pale, and he very well could have been the Venus de Milo for all the help he looked like he would offer. Greg knew that he had to leap into action, but for a few moments, all he could focus on was the light sloshing of water from the pool.

" _My_ croft!" He finally got out, stumbling over to the man and getting to his knees. From there, it was simple. Routine. His mind went back to the injuries class he had taken  _ages_ ago, and it was so damn easy to equate that stupid practice dummy to the man in front of him. Strong hands flipped Mycroft over on his back. The impact of the fall had shattered Mycroft's nose, and blood leaked down the man's face. His eyes were shut.

Just in case Mycroft was still conscious, which Greg sincerely doubted, he began to utter soft reassurances. With the reassurances, a bit of panic slipped into his voice – this was Mycroft, the man who had been in the center of every childish, complex feeling he had had for the past few months. Still, though, he began to press against the wound, feeling the blood seep in between his fingers. He reached for his jacket and pressed it over the wound, and soon, that was soaked clean through.

There was so much blood.

Greg didn't fancy himself chicken, because, frankly, he couldn't be. However, he had to suppress the urge to vomit as the smell hit his nose. It was about when he turned his head from Mycroft to take a fresh breath that his eyes fell Sherlock.

He'd never seen Sherlock look like that before.

The boy was positively shaking, though not in a way that hinted at fear. No, it was more akin to the withdrawals he usually had. His eyes were watering, although none fell. His lips were twitching and his entire face was red from the effort.

Looking at Sherlock, it was as if the boy was a bomb, ready to blow at any moment. Or a pot, simmering to a boil. And he was desperately,  _desperately_ trying to hold it in.

"Get  _out_ of here!"

Was that really Greg's voice?

It sounded much too harsh and much too angry. As if Greg blamed Sherlock for all of this. Which he didn't, not really. At least, not now, not when the situation was too insane and Mycroft was bleeding out between his fingers. That was why he sounded so angry, Greg reasoned – it was just all too mad and Greg was just not a mad person. These two bastards had dragged him into something insane. Exciting, yes, but utterly insane, confusing, complex.

But, hell, he didn't know what he'd do without it anymore.

"Somebody  _get_ Sherlock out of here! And call Emergency!" Greg's voice rang out over the pool again, and he was just dimly aware of Sally Donovan pulling Sherlock's arms behind him. As if she were going to  _arrest_ him. Sherlock looked frightened out of his mind for a second, but he seemed to lack the strength to fight back. So Greg turned back to Mycroft.

"Hey, Myc, everything's going to be okay. Just a little scrape. Not even a scrape, really, a nick. A nick's all it is." Greg tried to soothe him, pressing down on his chest. Mycroft's eyes fluttered open when Greg pushed harder, and he opened his mouth in a soundless groan. His back arched and recoiled away from him, and Greg felt guilt creep up his back. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Mycroft, but you know I've got to do this. Just keep going strong, yeah?"

"Greh…" The voice came from the politician, and Greg leaned closer to his chest. Mycroft's voice didn't go above a whisper, at any point. "Gregory, I…where's he?"

"Sherlock's gone out. We've got him out. He's okay. I'm okay. You're going to be okay. Everything's fine, yeah, Mycroft? Just keep on breathing for me. It's okay." Greg continued to soothe him.

It seemed ages before the ambulances came, and Mycroft's breathing seemed poor and pitiful. He had tried another few words, short ones, but they hadn't come out. And as Mycroft was loaded onto the ambulance, Greg could've sworn he heard the man's breathing stop completely. He made a move to go on but Sally Donovan took his shoulder and shook her head.

Greg nearly punched her.

Regardless, he stayed back.

He felt such an overwhelming sense of guilt and a need to help that he was shifting from side to side. For a few seconds, it was just normal guilt – a man had been shot, he was being sent to the hospital, and it was unsure as to whether or not he would survive.

Then Greg realized what a load of crock that was.

That man was  _Mycroft,_ a man who he had cuddled on the couch and fed food to and shagged when Sherlock was at school. This was the man who had broken up with while Sherlock was sleeping off a drug high in a jail cell, the man he had some sort of strange bond with, the man who, god damn it all, Gregory Lestrade  _loved._

He was getting pretty damn tired of trying to pretend he didn't.

Granted, there was one curly-haired man who made admitting things like that very difficult.

Speaking of which, Greg's fingers headed toward his mobile, intending to call Sherlock. Make sure he had gotten home okay. That he  _was_ okay. For whatever reason (perhaps because Greg didn't trust his voice to keep calm), Greg just slipped his mobile back inside his pocket and left the crime scene. He didn't head home.

Instead, Gregory Lestrade went back to the NSY. There he took a shower and literally washed the blood off his hands, took a fresh change of clothing. It was there that Greg's fingers drifted toward his mobile again, but Sally Donovan intercepted him and told him that he looked like utter shit. He was recommended to go take a lie-down. And, once more, his mobile fell in his pocket and Greg curled up on a cot.

His sleep wasn't pleasant. It was plagued by nightmares and haunts, and when Greg woke again, he was fully covered in sweat. Damn it all. Sleeping at the Yard always gave him nightmares. He had to go up and take another shower again. This time, any thought of calling Sherlock wasn't in his mind. Instead, he headed straight to St. Barts and requested for one Mycroft Holmes. The nurse smiled at him and urged him in.

"I didn't expect you to arrive, Inspector." Mycroft was sitting there, pale-faced, in the center of a private room. He did look awfully pathetic – surrounded by at least three blankets and, still visible, a large white bandage surrounding his upper half. An IV was inserted into his arm. "After all, I don't believe that I paid you a visit while you were in."

"Yeah, well." Greg grinned at him and sat down on the edge of his bed. Suddenly, his grin vanished and he felt…well, nervous. After all, it was just a few hours ago that he had admitted to himself he loved Mycroft Holmes. And it  _hurt_ to see him like this and to not be able to touch him. Hold him. Tell him that everything was going to be okay, they were both safe. And all that piss-poor Gregory Lestrade could manage to do was gently move his hand over and cover the top of Mycroft's. "I couldn't leave you alone. Not after seeing you like that, you know? You might have a bit of an emotion problem, Myc, but God, I don't think I'd be able to forgive myself if I didn't visit you."

Mycroft actually gave him a tired smile and reached up to pat the side of his face. Of course Greg suspected that Mycroft might very well be doped up on painkillers, which explained the dull look in his eyes, but he still liked the contact. "During the affair. I saw you running towards him, too, you know. You would have done the same thing. You stupid, silly man. How can London possibly afford to lose you?"

At that, Greg swore that his smile could have split his face in two. It'd been so damn long since he had seen Mycroft, much less feel the man's hand on his face. He was still warm, despite the paleness. "Lose me my  _arse._ It's  _you_ that London would collapse without. I was just doing my civic duty, that's all."

Mycroft opened his mouth again, but the mobile rang on the nightstand. His lips pursed and he made a feeble attempt to reach it, but Greg moved his hand away from it. "No. I think you can take a break, Mycroft, honestly. Just you and me for a little while, yeah? I think we need to have a proper conversation, anyway."

"But it could be-"

"Unimportant? Yeah, it very well could be." Greg hesitated for a second, squirming about in his seat, and then he felt a mad sort of urgency overwhelm him. There was nothing like a near-death experience to really motivate him, after all. So he just leaned forward and cut off whatever Mycroft was saying next. Their lips met, and although Greg was sure he tasted of coffee and Mycroft tasted off pills and rubbing alcohol, it was the most brilliant kiss he'd had. Ever, he was certain. Greg's hand went to Mycroft's hair and stroked the back of his head gently. Initially, Mycroft had frozen in his bed, and Greg could nearly hear the alarms going off in his head. Then Mycroft just threw his arms around Greg's neck as best as he could, and they stayed in their embrace for years, it felt like. When Greg finally leaned back, a touch of colour had returned to Mycroft's cheeks.

"You do realize that…Gregory, as much as I would love to…Sherlock  _won't-"_ Mycroft protested feebly. Despite his words, one hand went to Greg's, holding it tightly to ensure that Greg wouldn't suddenly leave the room. Greg leaned forward and gave one more short, tender peck.

"He'll be leaving for university in a week or so. And we'll just have to work, alright? Because there isn't a way in  _hell_ that I want you to die without knowing how much I love you." Yes, perhaps it was the first time Greg had mentioned it to Mycroft, and perhaps it was a bit not good given the context. Still, Mycroft lit up considerably at it and threw his arms around the man's neck again. The kiss lasted longer.

"Oh, Gregory. I love you, too. So much. It's so…difficult, all of these emotions, and I cannot possibly hope to sort them all out, ever, I believe. But I know that I want to be with you, for as long as I possibly can, and…oh, Gregory!"

He burst into tears.

Holy hell.

Greg was sure that it had something to do with the painkillers, maybe the trauma of the injury, or perhaps it was just the first time anyone had ever said 'I love you' to Mycroft Holmes. And meant it, at any rate. So he just leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Mycroft, and soon, they were both sobbing like children into each other's arms. It was pathetic to everyone but the two of them, and soon, Greg pulled himself together.

"You're a twit. Getting me crying like this. Everything's fine, eh? Everything is  _brilliant,_ now. You love me, and I love you, and that's how it's going to be. Sherlock'll have to learn to live with it, because I'm in  _love_ with his damn brother." Greg murmured into his hair, stroking Mycroft's back. Mycroft didn't reply, and Greg got the slightly bemused feeling that he wouldn't be hearing the words 'I love you' from the cold man often. Regardless, Greg just told him, over and over, how much he loved him, how much he adored him, how much he had missed him, how much he always wanted to be with him.

Mycroft eventually managed to pull himself together and just lay there, comfortably resting in Greg's arms. The painkillers seemed to be increasing in dosage, because he soon felt Mycroft's breathing slow down. Still, Greg would occasionally murmur those three fateful words into Mycroft's hair. Only twenty minutes had passed before Mycroft raised one limp hand and pressed it against Greg's cheek. "Check my mobile. Anthea's left a message, I hope."

"Sure, honey, go back to sleep." It was when Greg reached for the mobile that he received a pain in his heart – sharp and stinging, like someone had fired an arrow through it. Sherlock. He'd forgotten about Sherlock. How long had it been? Jesus Christ.  _Sherlock._

The message was already playing when that thought came to him, and soon, Anthea's chirping young voice sang in through the mobile.

"I've checked his flat, sir. The entire place looked like a twister had hit it, I'm afraid. I've arranged for some cleaning personnel to visit before the good Inspector returns home. There was no sign of him, although his room appears to be entirely cleaned out. No clothes, none of his little trinkets, and some money appears to be gone." There was a slight pause and the ruffle of a paper on the other line. "He left a note, sir, but I don't quite understand. Apparently the good Inspector ordered him to 'get out', he says. And he apologises for getting you shot, of course. He says that he has headed off to University early, and while he expects surveillance from you, he wishes to keep visits from Gregory Lestrade at a minimum. That appears to be all, sir."

The line cut dead and Greg groaned. He picked up his own mobile and dialed Sherlock. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Trying to fight the rising panic in his heart, he dialed  _Anthea's_ number from Mycroft's mobile, introduced himself quickly, explained the situation, and told her to get a hold of him. Sometime then, Mycroft stirred by his side and, as if by habit, pressed a kiss against his chest. "What did Anthea say? Is Sherlock alright?"

Greg turned towards him and pursed his lips for a second. "He's…well, he left for University. A week early. Left a letter saying that…you'll be putting surveillance on him, yeah, but he doesn't want to see me much. He's packed everything, stolen a bit of money. I just…Jesus, My. I'm glad he didn't do anything stupid, but the last time I saw him, he looked…like…"

"Looked like what, Gregory?"

"Remember when he relapsed? And you told me that caring wasn't an advantage, and that being alone protected you?"

"Of course I do. It's burned into my memory."

"He looked a trifle like that." Greg mumbled, eyes downcast. Mycroft pushed his head up so that it would brush against Greg's lips.

"He's a Holmes, Gregory. We aren't supposed to have friendships or relationships with people. It's a wonder whenever we can have one. A sincere one, really. And now he feels as if he's ruined the only proper friendship he ever had, and he decided to…cut his losses clean, as it were. Before you start to hate him. It's simple psychology, Gregory."

Greg listened to it and frowned. "I don't hate him, though, and he's got to know that. He knows I love him. Doesn't he?"

Pursing his lips, Mycroft looked away from Greg and pressed his fingers together. "You must realize that for most of our lives, Gregory, we are either ridiculed or feared. Sherlock prefers to be the former, and I prefer to be the latter. He believes that, even if you do apologise and try to amend everything, you shan't mean it. You would only be doing it as your sense of duty, or, worst case, so you can have him back to mock."

"Any hope?"

"Perhaps. Regardless, he shouldn't be disturbed for a long while. Not until he calms down. He will not want to be disturbed." Mycroft responded, his fingers separating and dragging across Greg's face again. "Anthea will keep an eye on him. No drugs. I hope."

It was something Mycroft probably wouldn't understand, because although Greg had seen a very emotional side of him, he just wasn't emotional. But Sherlock had become such a large part of his life. It was like having a son. It  _was_ having a son. A son who drove him mad and who made him proud. And now Sherlock was just gone, without a goodbye, and with a request to not see him again. Although Mycroft was here and he was holding him, Greg felt an empty bit in his heart. His head fell on top of Mycroft's, and he swallowed. "Yeah. No drugs. He'll be fine. He was looking forward to Uni, anyhow. He'll have fun there. With…what's-his-name, his roommate. Wilkes."

From the way Mycroft was looking at him, he didn't realize what was wrong. Only the fact that something was wrong. A kiss was placed gently to his jaw. "Gregory?"

"Yes?"

"I love you. Thank you."

Greg's face split into a smile. He didn't ask the cliché 'thank me for what?' question, because he was certain he already knew. Thank you for taking in Sherlock. Thank you for letting me watch him with you. Thank you for defending me when Sherlock insulted me. Thank you for taking care of him. Thank you for helping him. Thank you for comforting him. Thank you for being a friend. Thank you for loving me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

"You know, My?" Greg asked him, his usual energy and warmth returning for a brief second. "It doesn't need a thanks, at all. And I love you."


End file.
